The Scientist
by uchiha.s
Summary: AU, HG/TMR/FW. Attraction builds between Hermione and her best friend's older brother, yet she can't tear her mind from the mysterious puzzle that is her critical theory professor: Dr. Riddle. EPILOGUE UP.
1. 1: The Kill

The Scientist

Summary: AU, HG/TMR/FW. Attraction builds between Hermione and her best friend's older brother, yet she can't tear her mind from the mysterious puzzle that is her critical theory professor: Dr. Riddle.

Author's Note: Ugh. I have other stories to finish. But I saw a picture on tumblr of Tom Riddle wearing hipster glasses, and then, somehow this story was spawned. Hope you guys enjoy this little story. Hoping to keep it to three chapters.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; it belongs to JKR. I am just playing with the characters :) **

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><p>Chapter One: The Kill<p>

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><p>The music was much too loud and there were far too many people packed into the tiny rooftop garden of the apartment shared by Fred and George Weasley and their best friend Lee Jordan. <em>Still,<em> Hermione reflected as she hung by the edge of the garden, _it was nice of them to invite a nerdy girl like me._ The apartment shared by the three boys was technically a one-bedroom apartment, but it was still a really fantastic one. Between the three of them, they paid next to nothing for rent. And with the three boys' well-known reputations with the ladies, they never happened to all be staying at the apartment at the same time on any given night anyway.

Hermione rolled her eyes and smirked behind her drink as she watched Ron getting dragged by his older twin brothers into the throng of dancing people. Their little sister Ginny was making eyes at Hermione's other best friend, Harry, from across the garden, and all in all, Hermione was feeling rather left out. _It's my own fault. If only I were more...more..._ More what? She could never put her finger on exactly what was missing from her personality that always left her in this same situation, no matter where she went.

She was always standing alone at the party, always working alone on projects in classes. Perhaps it was her deeply buried but still strong notion that she simply did things better on her own. Ron and Harry had over the years done something to reduce that part of her personality, and now, at the onset of law school, she was far more social than she had been in middle school when she had met the two boys. But they could not change her deeper nature, and though she longed to be social, she also longed for a less rambunctious environment.

"Wallflower, as usual," Harry greeted, handing Hermione a fresh drink. He nodded back over his shoulder meaningfully. "I don't know what to do," he confessed. Hermione smiled. Ginny was confidently weaving through the dancing people to get to their more secluded spot, her golden sequined top glittering and her gleaming waist-length red hair catching the light.

"Talking to her might be a start," said Hermione dryly. Harry glared at her momentarily before pushing up his glasses and rubbing his forehead, telltale signs that he was nervous. He always rubbed at a scar he had on his forehead, and now the skin around it was red from his attention. Doing him a favor, Hermione reached out and pushed his untidy black bangs to lie partially over the newly irritated skin.

"I already told her that it wouldn't work," he said through clenched teeth. "I'm leaving next week. Long distance relationships don't work. They. Just. Don't."

Hermione didn't get a chance to respond, for Ginny had reached them, her floral perfume clouding the air around them. At the outset, the redhead and Harry were complete opposites. Ginny was a fairly successful model and was never seen looking anything shy of completely glamorous, and was outgoing and flirtatious. Harry, on the other hand, was in training in the air force and was hard pressed to abandon his crummy bomber jackets and shabby jeans, and while he wasn't necessarily shy, he was not half as friendly or extraverted as Ginny. However, Hermione knew them both well enough to know that deep down they were made of the same stuff. Harry pointedly looked away.

"Hermione, are you _ever_ going to try dancing a little?" Ginny demanded irritably. "You always just stand around awkwardly."

"Leave her alone, Gin," Harry said immediately, breaking his vow of silence towards Ginny. Victory flashed in the redhead's eyes and she slowly turned to Harry, masking a rather seductive smile behind a glare that was highly reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley. _Time to go,_ Hermione thought wearily.

It always happened like this: Harry would insist he and Ginny could not work a relationship together and insist that they never speak again. ...Invariably they would run into each other, and Hermione would watch with well-meaning exasperation as Harry became ensnared by Ginny's charm that he was fully prey to. It was happening now: his green eyes flickered, irresistibly, to her lips, and his cheeks flushed as he looked away hastily.

"So we're speaking now, is it?" Ginny asked coolly, arching a penciled brow. Harry coughed, looking to Hermione for help, but he would not find it in her.

"Oh, time to go to the loo. See you two later," Hermione said airily, shooting Harry a smirk that he did not return as she left the two of them, smirking as she heard the two begin to snap at each other like they always did. Hermione checked her watch: just past midnight. She was allowed to go now, wasn't she? She hoped so. Surreptitiously she began to make her way towards the door to the stairs, but was nearly steamrollered by a lean redhead and a very tall, pretty black girl.

"Hermione!" Fred—or was it George? but no, it was Fred, as he still had both ears—bellowed in greeting. His girlfriend, Angelina Johnson, rolled her eyes at her boyfriend but smiled rather indulgently. "Leaving so soon? You look far too sober. Here, let's do shots!"

"Fred," Angelina warned, "Hermione doesn't like to party." She turned to Hermione. "Ignore him. You know how he gets after the seventh rum and coke."

There was something patronizing about Angelina's tone, and it ruffled Hermione's feathers. "So, I hear you're doing the law program. If you ever need any help, let me know," Angelina changed the subject swiftly. "Have you met any of the professors yet?"

"Just Dr. McGonagall," Hermione replied, recalling the severe-looking older woman who was one of the heads of the law program at Hogwarts University. Angelina's mouth twitched.

"Wait til you meet Dr. Riddle," she said with a grin. Hermione arched her brows.

"This is probably the third time I've heard that. What's so special about this guy?" she asked irritably. Angelina shook her head, laughing.

"You'll see. I can't explain it without you having met him. You can look, but I don't recommend attempting to touch. Then again that same advice was given to me, and i tried anyway, so I may as well just let you try and see."

Hermione was getting irritated by Angelina's behavior, but luckily before it became visible, Lee and George had pulled Angelina away, entrapping her in a drinking game that looked like it involved tequila. Relieved, Hermione turned to go, but found Fred still standing there, barring her way out.

"Trying to help my little sister along?" he asked shrewdly, his blue eyes twinkling knowingly. He nodded discretely to Harry and Ginny, who were now deep in their own private conversation, their faces flushed with happiness, as they stood in the corner under the white twinkle lights strung around the garden. Hermione half-smiled and shrugged.

"It's not that they need help, really. Just a little...encouragement, I suppose," Hermione replied. Awkward silence passed between them; Fred and she were of entirely different social statuses and she had never exactly known what to say to him. When other people were around, they interacted more smoothly, but alone she keenly sensed how they had absolutely nothing in common. She was just a bookwormish girl who happened to be best friends with his younger brother and sister; he was a popular guy who had already started an entrepreneurship. In high school, she remembered him and George as two of the star players on the soccer team and the biggest pranksters. Since then, not much had changed. "Thanks for inviting me, by the way. I should probably get going now, though," she added, her face and neck flushing.

"No problem," Fred said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away briefly. It was unusual to see Fred look uncomfortable in a social situation, and it made Hermione all the more self-conscious. "Hey, I need a little breather from all the drinking anyway. I'll walk you home. Ickle Ronniekins mentioned you live near Gin."

Hermione began to protest hastily but Fred wouldn't hear of it, and after letting Angelina know where he was off to, they left the party together. Hermione's stomach was tied into knots from the awkward silence and frantically she searched for something to say. Out on the street, few cars passed; their city of Hogsmeade tended to shut down at night. The gravel was wet from the light rain that had been falling earlier in the evening.

"So, Ron said you're in law school now?"

"Yes, classes start tomorrow," Hermione replied uncomfortably, looking down at her worn trainers as they walked. She wished desperately that her apartment could be closer; they still were at least twenty minutes away and she was having difficulty coming up with things to talk to Fred about. "How's your entrepreneurship going?"

"Oh, about as well as those things can go," Fred said cheerily. His previous discomfort seemed to have abated and Hermione fiercely envied him for his social grace. Still, his attitude put her slightly more at ease. "It's hard to get investors for a joke shop, obviously, but we've finally found a few people and we're looking into getting our own store."

They hurriedly crossed the road. When their arms brushed as they turned back onto the sidewalk, Hermione flinched away. Fred smelled like laundry detergent, toothpaste, and beer. It was a surprisingly attractive combination—he seemed to radiate boyishness. "When you're a famous lawyer you can get me and George out of pickles when we get sued for products not working as they should," he added teasingly, winking at Hermione.

"Don't count on it. You two have gotten into trouble before that even_ I_ couldn't get you out of," she retorted immediately, forgetting her own nervousness.

"Ah, yes—remember when you were just an itty bitty freshie in high school? And you got so mad when George and I put that gerbil in your locker?"

"How could I forget?" Hermione asked dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. "It was horrifying. You knew I hated gerbils," she added indignantly over Fred's chuckling. Soon they dissolved into nostalgic reminiscing of high school.

And somewhere along the way, Hermione forgot to be nervous around Fred, and they came to her apartment complex far too soon. The rain had started up again, though it was still just a mist, and hung around them, blurring the traffic and streetlights. "Thanks for walking me home," she said, her nervousness returning to her abruptly. Fred grinned down at her.

"Can't let a lady walk home alone, not at this hour. Don't worry about it."

For a moment they were silent. Hermione held her breath, and was about to say good night, when a chirping sound interrupted them. It was a very tinny, low-quality clip of a cheesy love song, being emitted by Fred's cellphone. "That'll be Angelina," Fred said awkwardly.

"Right. Well, I'll let you get that. Night," Hermione replied, her cheeks flushing hotly again, and she turned swiftly and went inside.

Out on the street, Angelina was letting Fred know she was going back to her own place and he could come over if he wanted. Fred hung up and let out a sigh, wiping the rain from his eyes, and involuntarily found his eyes traveling upward. A light had gone on in the apartment complex, and from here he could see Hermione moving around her apartment. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but sometimes, he thought Hermione was really rather cute.

_You're happily dating Angelina,_ he reminded himself warningly. Still, it was hard to tear his eyes from her window. _You're just getting nervous about all this commitment. Get a grip_. He went straight to Angelina's apartment, breaking into a jog to get away from Hermione's. To him, Hermione had always been his little brother's cute, geeky friend. He'd suspected that Ron had had a crush on Hermione for a long time, but somehow it didn't seem as though Hermione returned those feelings. At least, not anymore.

At the party, he had seen her standing in the corner, observing everyone else. Hermione was a mystery to him. Sometimes she was shy and flustered, other times bossy and domineering. Both sides to her were cute. Still he suspected there was a deeper layer that he had not seen. He always got the sense that he was peering through gauze at something more complex, more dark, when he talked to her, and it drew him in alluringly.

_Angelina. You love Angelina. She understands you, she is perfect for you,_ he fiercely told himself.

That night, he was not the only one lying awake, thinking about the walk to Hermione's apartment that they had shared.

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><p>Finally, the suspense would end. Today was her first day of law school, and consequently, her first chance to meet this infamous Dr. Riddle. Angelina had not been the first person to warn Hermione of Dr. Riddle, and she had not been the first person to cryptically refer to what Hermione assumed to be his good looks, either.<p>

"You've got critical theory with Riddle? Damn. Good luck," her sort-of-friend Parvati said with a grimace as they left the coffee shop on campus. It was finally time to attend to her critical theory class. Typically it was a class taken later in the curriculum, but thanks to Dr. McGonagall, she was getting to move a little further ahead in classes. Hermione had never moved at the same pace as her classmates, and she was eager to move onto more advanced topics. "My sister's friend had him. Apparently he's beautiful but...well, kind of evil."

"How evil can he possibly be? Nothing I can't handle," Hermione said with a bit of a smirk, tossing her hair a bit haughtily. "Remember that chem professor I had for undergrad?"

"Oh, god, the one with the greasy hair who refused to call on you in class?" Parvati burst into laughter. "That was hilarious."

"No, it wasn't. It was infuriating! He was a misogynistic pig," Hermione replied indignantly. "Anyway, I'll let you know how he is. See you around!"

The girls parted and Hermione stopped in the doorway of the law building to make sure she had everything. Something hard slammed into her. Her books went flying, as well as the coffee in her hand which exploded and spilled all over her blouse and books. "Ouch! Excuse me, you _jerk_—" she began in anger, whirling on the spot to look for who or what had smacked into her.

Her mouth went dry as her eyes landed on perhaps the most beautiful human being she had ever had the pleasure to be glared at. Dark, gleaming wavy hair fell just above dark eyes that were a peculiar, smoldering cross between grey, green, and blue, and he was using them to look down his straight, aristocratic nose at her, a disgusted frown curling his smooth, utterly kissable lips. Her eyes traveled downwards—had anyone ever looked so handsome in a suit? His dark jacket hung open, his tie carelessly flicked over his shoulder, revealing a pristinely starched white shirt.

"I—I... I'm sorry," she managed to utter, completely in shock. People were beginning to complain audibly about the holdup but it was a distant roar compared to the pounding of her blood in her ears. The man pressed his delightful lips together into a subtle sneer before speaking.

"Yes, I'm sure you are. However, you will find you'll be even sorrier if you make me late. Please stand aside," he said caustically. Immediately anger replaced lust.

"Oh yes, let me just move all of my things out of the way that _you_ made me drop," she snarled, forgetting herself.

"Please do," he said simply, though the faintest hint of amusement glimmered in his dark eyes. Grumbling, Hermione crouched down and began snatching her things, stuffing them into her bag. The man stepped around her swiftly. As he passed, she caught a note of subtle cologne that made her inhale deeply. She continued to hold up traffic by the door as she watched his tall, svelte, suit-encased form enter the building. Who _was_ he?

_They don't make them like **that** anymore,_ she thought wistfully as she entered the building, having recovered all of her things. _Too bad he was a complete ass. But isn't it always the way?_

She was a bit of a neat-freak and despised when her books weren't in mint condition, and it'd be embarrassing to open coffee-soaked books on the first day of class. It was also going to be humiliating to enter her class late. Hopefully this Dr. Riddle was not as evil as everyone made him out to be and wouldn't be too displeased by her late entrance. Hermione sprinted the rest of the way to the classroom. There was no window on the door like there usually were on classroom doors, so she could unfortunately not peek in and slip in, unnoticed, during an appropriate moment. Drawing in a breath deeply, she turned the handle.

The room was silent as the door banged shut behind her. Hermione's eyes traveled to the front of the room, looking for the professor, and she froze, her body going into shock, as her gaze rested on the professor who stood in front of the blackboard, poised as though he had been stopped in the middle of writing something.

It was the man who had smacked into her outside. Now dark horn-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose and he'd shrugged off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.

_Kill me. Now,_ she begged an ambiguous higher power as her face felt like it had burst into flame, and her bag almost slipped in her grip because her hands were perspiring so much.

"Tardiness," he began in a quiet, sibilant voice that made the enormous classroom strain harder to hear, "is not tolerated in my classroom. Do it again and I assure you, you will not disrupt my class. Ever. Again."

"Y-yes, sorry," she stammered, stumbling to the first open seat she could find in the entire lecture hall...which happened to be directly in the middle of the first row. The professor was silent, holding his chalk against the board, his dark eyes on her as she settled into her seat and took out her notebook with shaking hands. Did he have to draw _quite_ so much attention to her? Especially considering it had been _his_ fault she had been late, after all.

"Are you quite finished?" he drawled in disgust after she had located a pencil still dripping with coffee. When she nodded meekly, he sighed loudly and turned back to the board. "As I was saying, before I was..._interrupted_...this is critical theory. Most of you will not pass this class. Rest assured that if you do not pay careful attention, you will fall behind and never catch up." He looked over his shoulder seemingly pointedly at Hermione. "I expect every one of you to be on time, every day. Being on time means arriving before I do...whenever that may be."

Her blood boiled with his behavior as she watched him write his office hours and contact information on the board rapidly in elegant script, holding the chalk with pianist fingers. So this was Dr. Riddle.

As Hermione frantically took notes, she couldn't help but think that everyone had not been exaggerating about him in the slightest. In fact, she thought, their eyes meeting as he began lecturing, a brief and tantalizing flicker of recognition and amusement in his shadow-colored eyes, they really had minimized just how beautifully evil he seemed to be.

Despite seemingly being the spawn of the devil, however, Dr. Riddle was a fantastic lecturer. He was entirely captivating and soon Hermione became so immersed that she forgot to even take notes. He was probably quite the powerful lawyer, if he had this much presence in an enormous lecture hall. He was so wickedly subtle in his humor that it was lost on most of the class, but not on Hermione.

And slowly...her usual obsession with being liked and respected by her professors was building up inside of her again. She waited anxiously for any chance to prove herself, but he asked no questions and gave no room for comments. _I'll wait after class and apologize for being late, and make an observation on the material,_ she thought excitedly. Yes, she'd do that, and Dr. Riddle would be impressed, and then... she nearly swooned, imagining them having intellectual debates, poring over cases together...her cheeks flushed and she pushed aside her ulterior motives. No, she simply wanted him to think of her as a brilliant law student, she told herself. This had nothing to do with his physical beauty or his captivating personality.

After class, Hermione took her time packing up her things. To her disappointment, there was a long line of students waiting to speak to Dr. Riddle, but without acknowledging any of them, he shrugged back into his jacket and packed up his things, exiting the lecture hall swiftly and without so much as a backward glance, leaving the long line of students staring after him in disappointment.

_Damn._

But Hermione was nothing if not determined. Steeling her will, she looked up his office location. Hopefully he'd be there, and then he'd be so impressed that she had taken the time to seek him out! Mentally editing her observation to become a more insightful one, she slipped down the halls. She just had to pray that she was the only one who had had this idea. Luckily she did not see anyone else heading towards his office, so she assumed she was safe.

Before stopping at his office, she made a trip to the bathroom. She was not vain, but she found herself neatening her bushy curls and checking her teeth for any food debris that might be lurking. Satisfied, she knocked on his office door with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

"Enter," came his icy baritone. She wiped her slightly clammy palms on her slacks and turned the handle, pushing open the mahogany door.

His office was not what she had expected. Hanging from the ceiling were models of the solar system, and tacked to the walls were posters of diagrams of the brain and human anatomy. One wall was taken up by makeshift shelves filled to bursting point with files and loose papers. A chalkboard was covered in his elegant script—at first blush it looked like case notes. Dr. Riddle was seated behind his desk, glasses on again and surrounded by stacks of folders.

"H-hello, Dr. Riddle. I'm from your Critical Theor—"

"I recall," he interrupted dryly, setting down his pen with a look of deep irritation at her over the rim of his glasses. He sat back in his chair, looking at her expectantly. "Come to make some idiotic observation about the lecture? Or to apologize for your tardiness? ...Or both?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed rather tellingly and he let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Miss...?"

"Granger," she supplied hastily.

"Yes, Miss Granger," he began, picking up his pen again. "As you can see, I'm a rather busy man. Perhaps if you had been paying attention at the beginning of class—or been there at all, for that matter—you might have noticed that I did supply my office hours."

"Yes, I wrote them down," she huffed indignantly. He nodded slowly at her like she was some sort of lowly creature such as a slug that was unlikely to understand him.

"And when are my office hours?" he asked in a silkily polite tone. Hermione bristled.

"Tuesdays at three," she replied impatiently, "but I just wanted to—"

"And is it a Tuesday, Miss Granger?" he interrupted sweetly.

"No, but—"

"Then what are you still doing here?"

Hermione's blood was pounding in her ears.

"Have a nice day, Dr. Riddle," she said acidly, turning on her heel to leave his office. Just before she shut the door, he called after her.

"Next Tuesday then, Miss Granger," he said gamely with a wicked wink. The door slammed shut behind her.

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><p>"He's a complete arse," Hermione exploded indignantly into her phone. "<em>He<em> made me late, then proceeded to humiliate me in front of the entire class relentlessly! I don't think he went ten minutes without making some reference to how offensive my lateness was to him! And when I went to his office to apologize, he just humiliated me some more!"

"Yeah, Ange said he was a git," Ron said sympathetically, glancing over his shoulder. He was in his brother's apartment, and Angelina and said brother Fred were currently involved in making use of Lee's new Wii. "Angelina, 'Mione finally met that professor you were talking to her about," Ron called into the cramped living room. Fred's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Hermione as Angelina paused their Wii tennis game.

"Oh, Riddle? Did she say anything about what he looks like?" she asked with a sly grin. Befuddled, Ron turned back to the phone and the sandwich he was in the midst of making at the same time.

"Angelina wants to know if you noticed what he looked like. Weird. Is he hot or something? One of those older hot guys?"

Fred tried to not look too interested in Hermione's answer as Ron called back into the room, "She said you really downplayed how hot he is way too much."

Angelina burst into laughter and resumed their tennis game, but Fred wasn't ready and she scored a point.

"Hot prof? Should I be worried?" he teased, attempting to keep his tone casual. Angelina grinned wickedly at him.

"Believe me, even the straight guys in the class would've done him. Bloody bastard, though. Seriously, if he weren't a law professor, he'd probably be an evil dictator or something. Made me want to drop out of law school." Her tone was tinged with humorous bitterness as she scored another point. "Are you on drugs today? Usually you beat me without even trying!

"I'm fine," Fred replied, clearing his throat and shaking his head. "Y'know, I ought to go see if that investor has gotten back to me."

"Alright, sure," Angelina said warily. She had been dating Fred long enough to know that when he was upset, he threw himself into his work...even around dinner time. And for a Weasley to skip on food or play was highly unusual.

Fred wanted to smack himself. He hardly knew Hermione, and they had never had chemistry before. _You were drunk the other night, and just randomly saw her in a new light,_ he told himself vehemently. He was abruptly distracted by the reply that he had gotten from a potential investor, and excitedly opened it, his heart racing.

"We've got funding!" he cried, jumping off the couch. Angelina shrieked with excitement and kissed him heartily, and Ron came into the room, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth with one hand and high-fiving Fred with the other. Fred grinned; he couldn't wait to tell George. "We've got to celebrate," he said breathlessly with a grin. "Drinks on me and George tonight. Come on!"

"I can't; I've got to study," Angelina said apologetically. Fred winced. He suspected Angelina was a bit irritated by his career path, but he pushed the thought aside. _You're just looking for problems now. Just forget about Hermione. It's not like you see her all the time._

"I'll go," Ron piped up. He fished out his cell phone from his pocket. "I just asked Hermione to meet up tonight; I'll invite her."

_ ...Damn._

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><p>With all of the commotion about Dr. Riddle, the walk home with Fred had slipped Hermione's mind. Now, as she approached the bar that all of her friends usually met up at, pleasant jitters were coming back to her in waves. Not that anything could ever happen, of course. Fred and Angelina had been dating without reprieve since high school. But it was nice to look forward to seeing someone. She'd even dressed up slightly for the occasion, going as far as applying a bit of makeup.<p>

The bar was called the Three Broomsticks and was a cozy, cheerful affair. Ron particularly liked the bar for its 'scenery'...meaning the lovely bartender who was generally there. She was a pretty blonde named Rosmerta, and through the window outside Hermione could spot Ron at the bar, attempting to joke with Rosmerta.

Fred and George were already there as well, but Angelina was apparently not there yet. Taking a deep breath in, Hermione braced herself for seeing Fred, and stepped inside. The pub was crowded as usual, and Hermione experienced a shock when she recognized a group at one of the booths. Dr. Riddle was seated among other professors. The glasses were absent, disappointingly, though next to him sat a striking woman with waist-length black curls and heavy-lidded eyes that reminded Hermione of the models that usually appeared on the cover of GQ. Her skirt and jacket were black and tight-fitting, and as she was on the outside of the booth, Hermione spotted sky-high stilettos. As though the woman could feel her eyes on her, she turned to look at Hermione over her shoulder.

"Ah, Miss Granger. I thought we already discussed the fact that my office hours are on Tuesdays...and generally in my office," Dr. Riddle greeted dryly. Hermione scowled.

"For your information, I'm meeting my friends, Dr. Riddle," she snapped waspishly. A man with platinum blonde hair slicked away from his pointed face was seated with them as well, watching her with icy grey eyes. "Have a nice evening," she added, and stormed over to the bar. Ron had begun a song on the karaoke machine and was drunkenly doling out a rendition of the same song that was Fred's ringtone for Angelina, singing and dodging thrown items from the twins and now Harry at the same time.

"You made it, Mione!" greeted Fred enthusiastically. Just then Ginny sidled up, wearing a short forest-green dress and tall boots. Harry immediately ducked away, mumbling something about having to use the loo, his face the color of beets. "I suppose they're at the post-coital avoidance stage of the cycle now," Fred commented under his breath, and Hermione snorted.

"Too true," she said grimly, observing the flash of hurt on Ginny's lovely face as she watched Harry hurry away. "So what's the occasion?"

Fred's eyes twinkled and he grinned, handing her a butterbeer.

"Finally found an investor. It's gonna happen," he said with barely concealed excitement. Hermione let out a shriek and set her butterbeer down to throw her arms around Fred impulsively. She realized a beat too late what she had done and she and Fred drew back abruptly as though electrocuted.

"T-that's great," she stammered, taking a swig of her butterbeer to hide her blush. "So where are you guys going to set up shop?"

"Here in Hogsmeade. There's a place on High Street that has an open flat above. I hate to give up our flat that we have now, but..." he sighed. "It's time to move on, you know? This place has two bedrooms. Heh, I'm twenty eight and this will be the first time I have my own room," he said sardonically.

"Well, sort of. Angelina'll be staying there, right?"

For some reason, Fred looked uncomfortable. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, true," he agreed vaguely. "Anyway, whenever you want to be a test subject for our products, let me know."

"Fred!"

"Kidding! ...Sort of."

As she was laughing and talking with Fred, Hermione had the peculiar sense that she was being watched. Uncomfortably she glanced over her shoulder, but never caught anyone looking with her. _Perhaps I'm hyper-sensitive to his presence..._ she thought as she tore her eyes from Dr. Riddle, who was deep in conversation with the blonde-haired man. For most of the evening, she and Fred sat by the bar, chatting and downing butterbeer after butterbeer. Hermione was disappointed when Angelina showed up and Fred had to leave.

Finally, it seemed everyone was tiring, and after giving George a last congratulation, Hermione stepped out of the pub. It was raining outside again. Hermione wrinkled her nose—she hated rain. She stood in the safety of the awning, hoping the rain might let up, when the bar door opened and Dr. Riddle stepped out, his suitjacket folded over his arm.

"Miss Granger," he greeted. Hermione waited for him to either continue without another word or make some snide comment, and at the idea of it, her cheeks flushed. But to her surprise, he went to stand under the awning next to her.

"How are you?" she queried politely, making a painful stab at conversation. Dr. Riddle rolled his eyes.

"A bit annoyed, actually." He turned to her. "I hate rain, you see." He held out a pale hand, testing how hard the rain was falling, and sighed before drawing it in again.

"Me too."

For a moment, they were silent. Hermione's hairs on her skin prickled as she considered saying something about his class, but kept deciding against it, for fear that he think she was trying too hard to please him.

"You're too hesitant and wilting," he said suddenly. Hermione blinked in shock at him rather stupidly. "Really, Miss Granger, either fuck him or not, but what you were doing was not exactly playing hard-to-get."

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked in disbelief. He had to be talking about Fred. Dr. Riddle shifted, bracing his hand against the wall near her shoulder and regarding her with a critical stare.

"I think you have a lot of spirit that is buried under a complete lack of confidence. You've already been a complete bitch to me several times, which is comforting...but you tend to hide that bossy, domineering side. If you want to be successful in law, that simply will not do. Don't tempt and tantalize—go in for the kill."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione sputtered. Dr. Riddle's eyes roved over her.

"Yes, you do. You know exactly what I'm talking about. I know you were upset that I made you late and then criticised you for it. Taking it lying down doesn't seem to be your nature, and it won't serve you well in law either. And if you want that man in there, then go for it or stop trying entirely. It's not a chase..." he paused, looking deeply thoughtful for a moment. "...So much as whack-a-mole, really," he finished thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

"He's practically married, and I'm not interested."

"Unconvincing," Dr. Riddle said shortly. "You were blushing the entire night, you kept touching your hair or your shirt—signs you were nervous—and you were anything but subtle in how you could not keep your eyes off his crotch."

Hermione swallowed a retort; she was catching on to what Dr. Riddle was doing. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Perhaps I was nervous because of one of my other friends that I'm interested in was there. And what if he had a stain on his jeans? Yours is the unconvincing argument," she parried smoothly. Dr. Riddle's eyes flashed with amusement before his lips curled into a pleased grin.

"Very good," he said softly. "The wilting, blushing thing isn't working for you. Forget shy. Just go in for the kill—always." He turned and stepped into the rain. "Have a good night, Miss Granger. See you in class tomorrow—don't be late."

"Don't make me late, then!" she called after him bossily. His sensuous chuckle reached her ears as she watched him get soaked through by the rain and hail a cab. All too soon he was gone and she was left with a feeling of unsettlement that was rather pleasant.


	2. 2: Undertow

The Scientist

Author's Note: WOW. I cannot believe the amazing responses I got from the first chapter. You guys are so awesome! I'm trying to keep this story brief. We will see, lol. Please keep the reviews coming!

Disclaimer: see chapter one.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>: **Undertow**

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><p>Tom Marvolo Riddle did not dream. He had never once before had a dream in his entire life. Nightmares? Yes. He generally had nightmares. Waking in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, shaking and clutching his covers around him, was a common occurrence. Ever since the orphanage, when he'd found out...<p>

The usual nausea at the memories was quelled when he got out of his bed and stumbled across the hardwood floors to his study. Normally logic helped him: critical theories, cold and cruel logic, the beauty of icy fact. Tom Riddle felt if he could simply live in logic itself he could find that elusive thing that other people possessed, the one thing he himself could not possess: happiness.

But tonight logic did not help him, for he had not been awoken by a nightmare as he usually was. Tom traced a path back to the large window in his apartment overlooking the city street with glimmering neon lights and brake lights and street lights. What had he dreamed of? It was strange, to have dreams. It was both fleeting and returning in waves, yet all the while fading. His fingers curled against the glass as he rested his forehead against the cool surface, closing his eyes and hoping for clarity.

Warmth...

Abruptly he pulled away from the window and, mechanically, returned to his study. Tom Riddle had no patience for self-indulgent wonderings. He found his glasses and switched on the light, immersing himself in his latest case. As always, the rest of the world faded away, as he wished it would always. Still the feeling of warmth clung to him, the notion of being wrapped up very tightly in a blanket. It had been so pleasant.

"Disgusting," he said aloud. There was no response because his life was empty. Only the noises of the city outside filled the silence in which he lived.

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><p>Weeks passed, though no pleasing developments occurred in her quest to glean insight into the mysterious Dr. Riddle. <em>His name is entirely too fitting<em>, she mused as she bustled down the road towards the future location of Weasley Wheezes and Co. She had broken out her oldest, baggiest, most embarrassing pair of pants and a sweatshirt riddled with holes. Today she was going to help Fred and George paint their new store, although considering the avalanche of work she had, it had not been wise to agree to such a thing.

The air was crisp: fall had certainly arrived, carrying with it a sense of excitement. Hermione was happy for Fred and George...but she was also excited to see Fred. She had not seen him since the night at the Three Broomsticks. Now Dr. Riddle's words came back to her just as she stopped in front of an empty storefront, squinting into the front display window.

_**Either fuck him or not.**_

Did he have to put it _quite_ so crudely? Still, he was right: this dithering sort of flirting was no good. Fred and Angelina were probably going to marry soon, and it was her responsibility, as both a moral person and as a friend, to not hit on Fred Weasley.

_If only things with Ron and I had worked..._ In high school they had had the sort of romance that had never gotten off the ground and mostly involved melodramatic tears and shouting. College had brought not maturity but higher self-esteem and it had only taken one night of drinking for them to tumble into bed together. Since then they had been picking up the pieces of their friendship and awkwardly fitting them back together. It was a shame things had not worked out, but in bed it had quickly become very clear that they had been very mistaken, and what they had interpreted as chemistry was actually just friction between two very different people.

Hermione put aside her reminiscing when she realized she had found the right shop. Hesitantly, she opened the front door which had peeling, graying paint.

"'Mione!" George greeted cheerfully and Hermione burst into laughter at the sight of them. Fred and George seemed to be more caught up in painting each other than the walls around them. They had chosen a lurid orange with violent after-effects on the eyes. Behind them, Harry was doing a rather poor job of stripping hideous mildewed flowery paper from the walls, swearing loudly in the process.

"Thank god you're here," Harry grumbled, ducking out of the way as Fred sailed by, wielding a paint-covered brush particularly irresponsibly. Unfortunately, Hermione's reflexes were not quite as impressive as Harry's, and she found herself sputtering at a large glob of paint dripping down her face.

"Fred Weasley! That stuff is toxic!" She wiped it off her face and lunged for the Weasley twin, managing to slap an orange hand-print on his ratty tee shirt where the orange clashed horribly with his hair. She flushed when her hand came in contact with lean muscle. They began laughing, chasing each other around, as George and Harry looked on in uncertain amusement.

Harry turned away from the giggling pair and back to his job, shaking his head to himself. He had known both Fred and Hermione longer than he _hadn't_ known them at this point, and he knew the telltale signs of when they were attracted to someone. And judging by their behavior, Hermione knew she liked Fred but was unwilling to accept it and most likely fighting at her attraction, and Fred...was probably pretending to be oblivious to his own actions, as usual. Harry was a bit relieved when Hermione finally gave up and began delegating tasks to everyone rather bossily, because it meant that when Angelina came in, she wouldn't find her boyfriend of over ten years chasing around Hermione. Angelina was no fool and would see what was going on immediately. Rather like he had, and rather like he somehow knew George had.

He resolved to talk to Hermione about it later. Knowing her, she didn't need telling twice to stay away from Fred. And he knew Fred would never cheat on Angelina intentionally. But it seemed silly to disrupt a relationship that had lasted over a decade quite peacefully because of a moment's attraction.

Hermione winced, feeling guilty that she had interacted with Fred at all. _But we've behaved like this before without any undercurrent,_ she reminded herself, taking to helping Harry strip the horrifying wallpaper from the plaster. _I just need to get over it._ Still, she knew Harry was shooting her rather shrewd looks, and she took to not meeting his eyes for the rest of the morning.

Later on, the other Weasley siblings showed up—even workaholic Percy—as well as Angelina and Lee Jordan. Ron brought his friends Dean and Seamus, who later invited a girl named Luna that Hermione had never met before. Apparently, Ron had never met her either, and it was amusing to watch as Luna seemed instantly attracted to Ron. Every time he made any joke, she laughed far harder than anyone else. Luna was definitely an oddity, and Ron seemed too surprised by the look of pure wonder etched on the blonde's face every time she looked at him to even be flattered.

There was also the bitter exchange of retorts between Harry and Ginny, who had arrived wearing clothes not suitable for painting in in the slightest. Hermione found herself unintentionally meeting Fred's eyes as Harry and Ginny's snipping began to take over as they argued about the proper method for stripping wallpaper (neither was doing it right, actually.). Hermione looked away quickly, as did Fred. Guilt wrenched her gut every time she looked at him, especially in front of Angelina.

Y_ou are too moral for this absurd behavior,_ she reminded herself. After a day of painting, they all went to the Three Broomsticks for drinks and dinner, still wearing paint-splattered clothes and perhaps a bit wonky from the fumes. But Weasley Wheezes was coming along: the walls were all excruciatingly orange, and tomorrow, the purple accents would be added. Hermione was filled with a sense of accomplishment as she ate with her friends. More butterbeer was consumed, but by ten o'clock, the drink of choice seemed to be straight firewhiskey which did not bode well. Knowing she tended to spill things better kept to herself under the influence of firewhiskey, Hermione declined.

She looked around at her friends as they laughed and talked with each other, and found herself mulling over the most recent reading for Dr. Riddle's class. It had been a particularly complicated piece that she still wasn't quite grasping. As usual when she did not understand an assignment, Hermione's stomach began to tie itself into knots of anxiety. Normally she might've gone to the professor's office hours to get a fresh point of view, but in this class her pride forbade her from asking for help from Dr. Riddle. It was likely he'd just make fun of her and inform her that she was too stupid to pass his class. As usual her contrary spirit roared to life and Hermione frowned in determination: come hell or high water, she was _not_ going to get anything less than an A in this class.

"I think I'm going to head out. Really tired and all," she said to Harry. Luckily Harry was too involved watching rather rapturously as Ginny drank from her beer bottle, and could only grunt unintelligibly at Hermione's words. Only Fred seemed aware that she was leaving, but when they made eye-contact, they each looked away as though scalded. Hermione got out of her seat and left the bar without any actual goodbyes. It wasn't that she was antisocial, but she always keenly sensed that some of her friends found her to be a bit of a spoilsport, with her apparently absurd work ethic. She always felt embarrassed about leaving early, but not embarrassed enough to stay longer.

It was bitingly chilly outside, and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she rushed down the sidewalk, across Hogsmeade, back to her lonely flat. _It's not lonely,_ she reminded herself. _Crookshanks is there. It's cozy. You'll have your tea and your reading..._

A flash of recognition jolted her from her inner musings; Dr. Riddle and the woman that Hermione had seen him with at the Three Broomsticks a few weeks ago were walking towards her. Hermione contemplated crossing the street to avoid them, but they were closing in on her now and she knew it was too late: Dr. Riddle had seen her.

"Well, if it isn't the infamous Miss Granger," he greeted as they each slowed to a stop in front of each other. Hermione noted his dark eyes sweeping over her form, taking in her apparel with a flicker of amusement. "Bella, darling, this is one of my most promising students. Miss Granger, this is Bellatrix Lestrange."

"She doesn't look like much," Bellatrix sneered, her hooded eyes roving over Hermione with deep disdain. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with irritation, but before she could speak, Dr. Riddle had interrupted her.

"I assure you that Miss Granger will be a name you'll hear again, Bella. It would behoove you to at least try to play nice," Dr. Riddle drawled. Bellatrix's face flushed as a gleaming black car pulled up to the curb next to the trio.

"Rodolphus," Bellatrix explained resentfully as the window rolled down and an impotent-looking man peered out of it. "Night, Tom," she said breathlessly, breast heaving, turning to Dr. Riddle momentarily. To his credit, Dr. Riddle looked supremely indifferent to her lust and merely nodded as the woman stomped around to the passenger's side, slamming the car door shut. This left Dr. Riddle and Hermione alone together.

"Well, I suppose you chose to _not_ fuck him, then," Dr. Riddle concluded, his stunning grey eyes lingering on her paint-splattered sweatshirt.

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded. Dr. Riddle's pale lips twisted into a smirk that left her weak in the knees.

"Oh, just an observation that had nothing, absolutely _nothing_, to do with the fact that your getup is oddly reminiscent of a lesbian artsy type," he said innocently, raising elegant brows at her. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I've had enough ego-razing for one evening, thanks," she said shortly, making to push past him.

"But you haven't even told me what you thought of the article yet, and I am positive you've already read it," he called after her. Hermione turned back to him, trying not to focus too much on how his charcoal suit exactly matched his eyes.

"It was... muddled," she said hesitantly. Her pride forced her to not admit that she hadn't understood it. "Badly written." Dr. Riddle's eyes were set aglow with pleasure.

"Or is there a chance you simply did not grasp the meaning?"

Hermione bristled.

"No chance. It was a bit crap, actually, and I'm appalled you'd have us read the ramblings of a disgusting man such as Salazar Slytherin," she snapped. "I don't care if he was a venerated philosopher; he was a megalomaniacal psychopath with no grip on reality. His theories have no logic to them whatsoever, and frankly, I don't think he should even be included in the same school of philosophy as Gryffindor and the others."

She paused to catch her breath. Dr. Riddle was staring at her with those haunting, penetrating eyes again. Her skin warmed under his stare. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a thirty minute walk home and I'm rather exhausted, as I was painting all day." She turned again and again his voice stopped her in her tracks.

"I'm heading to my car. I'll drive you home," he said quietly. Hermione looked over her shoulder at him warily. Was it right to accept a ride home from a professor? But she doubted Dr. Riddle had any 'motives.' "I'm intrigued by your view of Slytherin," he explained. "Come." And without a furhter word, he began walking again. Out of sheer curiosity, as was often the case for why Hermione did things, she followed him.

"I live down the road from Gladrags," she said as she trotted to catch up to his long, graceful strides.

"Convenient. I live around the corner from Gladrags."

His car was a Firebolt parked illegally (big surprise there). Hermione gasped; Harry was a car-lover and he and Ron had been frothing at the mouths about the firebolt for _ages_ nonstop. It was a green so dark it almost was black, and inside was sleek black leather. Hermione felt guilty about getting into such a fancy car in paint and dust covered clothing, but as Dr. Riddle apparently was not worried, she decided she wouldn't either.

And surprise, surprise: it was a stickshift. Hermione snorted at the sight.

"I suppose being a professor pays better than I thought," she observed as the car started smoothly. Dr. Riddle scoffed.

"Being a professor is little more than a hobby. My true occupation is in the court," he explained, hitting the gas so hard that Hermione was thrown back. The engine purred in such a way that even Hermione, whose knowledge of cars was limited to being able to identify which logo went with which car, could appreciate. "You really believe Slytherin was a psychopath?" They zoomed through a red light and Hermione winced. She chanced a glance over at Dr. Riddle, whose skin was lit up by the neon signs from outside. She was quite suddenly possessed by the ridiculous notion that it might be nice to run her tongue over the shell of his ear. Blushing furiously, she shook that thought away.

"Of course he was, Dr. Riddle," she said emphatically. "His ideology about intelligence and how society is inherently flawed is just...immoral. It's simply wrong."

"And you'd argue that Hufflepuff or, god forbid, Gryffindor were any less skewed?" He seemed genuinely intrigued. His interest in her was like a warm light shining overhead and she warmed with the flattery of his attention.

"I never said that. They're definitely skewed, but at least they're not evil. And don't forget Ravenclaw; she was no angel herself."

"Maybe not evil, but Hufflepuff's ideas are essentially early Communism, without even the _sensible_ parts of that theory. It doesn't get much more idiotic than that," Dr. Riddle sneered. Privately Hermione agreed with him, but she somehow could not bring herself to agree out loud with him. It was like her very _blood_ commanded her to argue with him.

"Forget Hufflepuff," she said dismissively, "the interesting one is Godric Gryffindor."

"I admit I'm impressed you're so well-read, but I'm a little disappointed as well, Miss Granger." They were coming to the crossroad now near her apartment; how had the drive gone by so quickly? _Perhaps because he completely ignored red lights and, for that matter, road rules in general?_ she pointed out to herself with an inward smirk.

"Disappointed?"

"You failed to understand that Gryffindor and Slytherin have, for the most part, the same essential views...Just different manners of expressing them. Perhaps Gryffindor was a bit more..._politically correct_, shall we say, but in the end hardly distinguishable from his colleague, Slytherin."

"I guess," she agreed, chewing her lip. He did have a point, sadly. "Looks like we're here."

Dr. Riddle pulled up to the curb in front of her building so fast that when they braked, she was nearly pitched into the glove compartment. "Thanks. I appreciated that," she said, feeling uncomfortable. For a moment they were silent as they stared at each other rather appraisingly. Then something occurred to her, and Hermione frowned. "And thanks for...the advice, I guess, that you gave me a few weeks ago. It made me realize I was being a crappy friend by flirting with that guy."

Dr. Riddle's gaze was scorching as he tilted his head to regard her carefully. Finally, after what seemed an age, he spoke.

"But...you could win, you know," he said thoughtfully.

"Win?"

"Win. Steal the guy."

"That's completely wrong. I would never do something like that," Hermione sputtered. "Good night, Dr. Riddle," she added hotly as she moved to get out of the car.

"It's just a hypothesis." His words stopped her again and she watched him, waiting for him to continue. "You want to be a lawyer, correct? Well, sometimes you are faced with something you need to do that seems wrong or unpleasant or disagreeable. You might be against it morally. You might feel your client is completely guilty. But you have to make your case, or else you'll be out of a job. You can't be a good friend; you must learn to be a good winner."

"Always going for the kill?" Hermione asked wryly. Dr. Riddle smirked. "Sorry, but first of all: I don't believe in that kind of behavior. Second of all: that guy is very happily in a relationship with his girlfriend, and he has been for over ten years now." She didn't even know why, really, she was telling Dr. Riddle all of this. He looked pensive for a moment.

"But you could do it. You could charm your way into his life. Odds are you already have."

"No, Fred's not that type of guy," said Hermione flatly.

"If you still are under the impression that you can know a man without him having imagined you naked at _least_ once, you've a lot of growing up to do. Now, what are you still doing in my car? Get out."

In a daze, Hermione stumbled out of his car and up to her apartment, feeling like she had just been given a ride home by the devil himself.

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><p>"Wait, where did Hermione go?" Angelina said suddenly.<p>

"She left like half an hour ago," Fred said automatically. Angelina looked guilty but shook her head.

"We should call and make sure she's okay. If you saw her leaving, why didn't you walk her home or something? I hope she's alright..." Angelina began dialing Hermione's cell phone; Fred carefully avoided both George and Harry's eyes. He knew they both suspected something, and he wasn't about to give them any more reason to. "Hermione!" Angelina greeted brightly.

Angelina listened for a moment and, quite suddenly, let out a shriek.

"What's going on now?" Ginny, who tended to be a bit of a surly drunk, demanded with a glare at Angelina. Angelina smirked.

"Guess who got a ride home from the lovely Dr. Riddle?" she waggled her eyebrows lasciviously and Ginny let out a shriek as well.

"The hot professor? So jealous!"

"He's not hot, he's a complete arse," Harry argued immediately. Angelina rolled her eyes and questioned Hermione further. Finally she hung up.

"You know, I'm worried about that girl. I think she actually has a crush on Dr. Riddle. We should set her up with someone, you guys..." Angelina's eyes drifted to Percy meaningfully.

"Why don't you just let her do what she wants?" Fred asked, feeling irritated for no good reason. Angelina looked taken aback and he instantly felt guilty. "Sorry. I just think she seems happy enough on her own," he explained hastily. Angelina looked angry though now, and for the rest of the night was notably cold towards him. He couldn't blame her, as he had been a real git lately.

Staring into the bottom of his glass of firewhisky, Fred considered his behavior. He loved Angelina, and she deserved more than he could give right now. She didn't deserve a guy who was preoccupied with thoughts of his little brother's best friend. He decided he would have to ask her to go on a break until he could get his head on straight, as he realized he could not quite act responsibly around Hermione. When they had been painting that afternoon, his mind had been clouding with ideas of how to make her laugh, or to get her alone. It was just plain dishonest, even if it was just a stupid passing crush.

And later that night, Angelina was understandably pissed when he told her he needed a time-out from them and their relationship. Thus Fred joined George at their new flat above the shop, which was entirely devoid of furniture. Yet he could not bring himself to feel too upset as he tried to curl up on the softest bit of floor in his room.

Perhaps he'd ring Hermione tomorrow.


	3. 3: Princess of China

The Scientist

Author's Note: thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far; you guys make my day! Also, I just wanted to point out that I know NOTHING about how courts and trials work. Thus I tried to keep those scenes to a minimum so as not to embarrass myself.

Disclaimer: The HP universe belongs to JKR; I am just borrowing for funsies.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: Princess of China<strong>

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><p>It had taken Hermione hours to fall asleep. Her heart was racing after her conversation with Dr. Riddle, and even though he technically had merely insulted her and then implied she should steal her friend's boyfriend, she wanted <em>more.<em> She wanted to have long, heated debates with him over expensive wine in elite restaurants. She wanted him to give her that half-smirk that felt so decidedly private. She wanted...

Oh, god. Hermione looked at herself that morning in the bathroom mirror. Despite only having gotten a few hours of sleep, her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed. She needed to sit down.

"I have a crush, Crookshanks," she groaned at her cat, who was perched on the toilet seat, watching her with what Hermione was positive was amusement. "I know, now I'm just another fangirl. I thought I was above all that."

The truth was that all night she had been kept up by the image of his elegant yet masculine hands positioned on the steering wheel, the wonder of what his artistic jawline might feel like to kiss, and the thought that if they did _do it_ (she would not resort to his crude and indelicate way of putting it) then he'd probably be superbly experienced and know exactly what to do... Her eyes narrowed as Hermione went about getting ready for her day. _Unlike every idiot I've ever been with?_ Ron had his own excuse: they sort of subconsciously had been waiting for each other. But every moron since then...

Seriously, if she were subjected to one more night of inexpert fumbling in the dark, she thought she might scream. Did these guys need a map, or _what?_ Perhaps that was the only basis for her attraction to Dr. Riddle, and to Fred, for that matter. They both appeared to have some idea of how things worked. "It's not a crush, Crookshanks. I'm just being ridiculous, and...getting a bit wonky in the head from lack of...well, you know."

Crookshanks looked decidedly unconvinced, but, as Hermione reflected as she got dressed, it was really none of Crookshank's business anyway. Also, talking to cats was probably the surest sign of all that she needed to go on a damn date, and it needed to happen _soon._

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><p>"Bloody <em>hell,<em>" Hermione growled, storming along the halls to Dr. Riddle's office. It was late in the day and chances were he wasn't even there anymore, but after having taken a gander at the latest reading he had assigned, there was no way in hell she was just going to let this one slide. The other day when Dr. Riddle had assigned the reading in class, she could have sworn he'd cast her a shrewd look of amusement, but at the time she had passed it off as him just doing what he did best, which was charming the entire female population of Hogwarts University (and some of the male as well). Forgetting to neaten herself up, she began pounding on his office door.

"He's at court, I'm afraid," came a wry voice from behind Hermione. She jumped slightly and turned to find Dr. Dumbledore, head of the philosophy department at Hogwarts University, standing behind her with a kindly smile. His dark suit had an odd purple sheen to it that every so often caught the light, and his long beard was tied with a little silvery trinket. "I was just going there myself, actually."

"D-Dr. Dumbledore," Hermione stammered, nearly dropping her books in her shock. "It's an honor. I admire you so much—"

"Time is of the essence, I'm afraid, and while I do appreciate the compliments..." he paused, casting a meaningful look at his watch. "Come with me; you must be Miss Granger."

"How did you know?" Immediately, Hermione fell into step with Dumbledore as they strode down the hall. Dumbledore chuckled to himself. Outside, the autumn air was crisp and twilight was descending upon them.

"Oh, Tom has mentioned your admirable intellect once or twice. I daresay the man who we all thought could not be impressed has finally been impressed."

It was flattering to be spoken of in such a way, and Hermione felt herself flushing with pleasure. "That, and today is not the first day you've been seen banging down his door..." he added gently, fixing her with a piercing blue-eyed stare.

"Yes, well," Hermione began in embarrassment, "when he assigns us certain articles, I simply cannot..." she trailed off as they crossed the busy city street and came face-to-face with the Hogsmeade courtroom. Hermione was instantly worried that her attire would not be acceptable, but Dumbledore either did not notice or did not care, and sailed into the court with Hermione in tow.

They slipped inside and took seats at the very back. Hermione bit her lip as her eyes reached Dr. Riddle. He was apparently in the middle of a cross-examination. His voice was smooth as silk as he paced in front of the current witness. Hermione could not even focus on his words because his sheer presence was overwhelming. Her jaw dropped slightly as she hungrily watched him gesturing with his hands.

"Always the performance with Tom," Dumbledore murmured knowingly, his piercing stare trained on Tom. "You see, he's brilliant enough to simply win a case on persuasion alone, but he can never resist turning on the old charm, can he?"

"That woman is practically melting in front of him," Hermione agreed under her breath. Indeed, the witness was a nervous-looking pale middle-aged woman with a thatch of unkempt gingery blonde hair. "Why did you come here today?"

"This trial is of particularly personal interest to me," Dumbledore replied rather cryptically. Hermione did not press for further information. Soon the trial was over; the defendant was found guilty under Tom's ruthless questioning. Dumbledore swept out onto the street before Hermione could push her way past the rush of people, and she found herself standing in the mostly empty courtroom with Dr. Riddle himself.

"Miss Granger," he said curtly with a nod. "I see you followed Dumbledore here?" The lack of reference to Dumbledore's degree seemed disrespectful on Riddle's part. Now that they were almost alone, the heat which had plagued Hermione at watching him cross-examine the witness came back in full-force. Watching him loosen his dark green tie was mesmerizing; just a sliver of his white undershirt underneath was revealed. Somehow seeing it was more tantalizing than if he had not been wearing an undershirt at all.

"He found me trying to get ahold of you," Hermione explained a bit sheepishly. "And now here we are."

"Ah. Well, if it's so important, you may follow me and explain as we walk," Dr. Riddle said blithely. They stepped out into the evening; walking with him seemed entirely too good to be true. She only wished she had thought to brush her hair or check her teeth. "Well?"

"The reading from Grindelwald," she began, though reminding herself of the article brought all of her rage rushing back in torrents, blazing away any nervousness or unease she was feeling around Dr. Riddle. Without strictly paying attention to where they were walking, she started her rant. "I cannot believe you had the gall to assign such a thing, especially so soon after that reading from Slytherin!"

"Don't be coy, Miss Granger—we both know very well you're the only one who picked up on the deeper meaning behind those articles." Suddenly they were standing in front of a restaurant. Dr. Riddle's stunning smoldering eyes lingered on her now, and was it her imagination or were they particularly interested in her lips and throat? **_If you still are under the impression that you can know a man without him having imagined you naked at least once, you've a lot of growing up to do._**

"I'm not being _coy_. I found it offensive. I know Dr. Dumbledore and Grindelwald were once colleagues, but I don't accept those views and I think it's wrong to present them to the class—even just to study their structure."

"How amusing that you find the energy to be so damn offended by every little thing," Dr. Riddle observed dryly. He leaned against the wall next to the door into the restaurant and shoved his hands in his suit pockets, studying her carefully. Even from here outside she could hear playful notes of jazz music coming from behind the door. Hermione was beginning to think that suddenly the air was far too warm.

"I can't help it if I have a conscience," she snapped. "I suppose I should let you attend to your dinner. I'm sorry for having disturbed you. Have a good night."

"Where on earth are you going?" Dr. Riddle sneered, effectively stopping her in her tracks. Their eyes met. "I assume, despite your heinous attire, you're old enough for a drink?"

"Not everyone is obsessed with appearances," Hermione said defensively, though all the same, she found herself following him inside the restaurant and bar, warmth unfurling in her stomach. When they found two empty places by the polished bar, they took their seats, and Hermione found herself so suddenly filled with nerves that her hands trembled and she had to fist them on the surface of the bar.

"So, you find Grindelwald and Slytherin to be amoral—yes, two firewhiskeys—yet you found nothing to complain about with the Flamel piece? How unsurprising," he sighed, accepting and then taking a swig of his drink. Watching his adam's apple move as he swallowed left a burn in the pit of her stomach and, simply to have something to do to hide her awe of him, she herself took a gulp of her drink.

"Unsurprising?" her voice was a bit hoarse from the fiery drink as she slammed it back down on the polished mahogany. Dr. Riddle's eyes were twinkling with amusement as he studied her.

"You're of a type, Miss Granger. They all are the same. These girls who think they're bound by their morals, who have such strict values. They usually can be found leaving the party early, taking pride in their own abhorrent state of dress—as if lack of physical care results in a deeper sense of spirit—and getting quite uppity about Slytherin and Grindelwald. I assume you have a cat as well?"

Hermione could only narrow her eyes at him as he laughed at her. The second swig of firewhiskey he took left the slightest hint of a flush on his cheeks.

"I bet you live alone and never cook for yourself," she said bitterly, for her ego was still smarting. "You probably have never had a pet because you can't bring yourself to care for another living being. And you have no sense of values or morals, and pride yourself upon it."

Dr. Riddle's gaze slid, ever so briefly, between her eyes, lips, and throat, and back to her eyes again. He hummed in thought.

"No, I had a pet once. A garter snake, when I was little," he said finally. "I named it Nagini."

"A pet snake? I should have known," said Hermione, her voice taking on a teasing quality. "And were your parents ever worried that their little boy wanted a snake instead of a puppy like every other boy?"

There was a flash of something across his lovely features that for one instant twisted them into something cruel and feral. The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck rose in fear.

"I should think not, as my parents were both dead by that point, and I was living in an orphanage," he said icily. Hermione had the sensation of water slipping through her fingers, or perhaps a door had been slammed shut in her face.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. He tilted his head back to gulp the last of his drink and his eyes slid to hers. "Why did you name it Nagini?" With a loud clunk, he set his empty glass back down on the bar.

"Albania," he said roughly. "I had read a picture book with a Gypsy from Albania named Nagini." His smirk softened into a smile as he looked down at his glass. "I went through a phase when I was young where I thought I would determine how to become immortal and travel round the world." One of the spinning, glittering models of the solar system he had in his office came to her mind. She found herself leaning forward eagerly. What a complex, exciting man he was! Most boys dreamed of becoming astronauts or firemen when they were little, and most boys wanted puppies for pets. Finally, it seemed improbable that any boy would name a pet after a Gypsy in a picture book.

The bar and restaurant around them had filled up, and they consumed more glasses of firewhiskey. The scenery spun pleasantly around Hermione, but her only reality was Dr. Riddle and his lovely dark mysterious eyes and smooth pale lips that could so quickly curl into a reproachful smirk or a disdainful sneer. But she wanted to see that genuine smile again. She wanted to bring out the boy who had loved snakes, who collected models of solar systems and posters of anatomy, who wanted to live forever. The Dr. Riddle who charmed and enchanted with his cologne and fine suits was just a shallow cover for something much darker and more inviting.

Hours later, they began making the short journey back to campus. When Hermione stepped out of the doorway of the restaurant, the world spun harder and she stumbled further, directly into Dr. Riddle's arms. For a moment they stared at each other until Hermione remembered herself and drew away, fidgeting with her bag and feeling herself going very red. How strange it was, she mused, that one moment they could be debating so fiercely that it might seem they were each out for blood, and then the next...she was stumbling directly into his strong arms.

"No, the truth is that Flamel's ideas are far more structured. He's a fine example of good, solid theory," Dr. Riddle was explaining as he unlocked the door to his darkened office. Hermione wondered why they had returned to his office, and then remembered slowly, like peering through fuzz, that they had come back here so that Dr. Riddle could lend her a book he owned. His back was turned to her as he rifled through his bookcases for the book. Hermione was warm and breathless, her throat and stomach still burning from the firewhiskey. She leaned against the opposite wall for support, her eyes feasting on his silhouette.

"And i'll bet you're intrigued by his theories on immortality," Hermione observed in a slur. Dr. Riddle straightened in surprise.

"And you're not? Don't tell me a brilliant girl like you isn't the least bit intrigued," he teased her. Apparently he had located the book, for with dark eyes he crossed the office and handed it to her.

"I'm intrigued," she agreed softly. It wasn't until now that she realized the lights were still off in the office. Streetlamps from outside cast Dr. Riddle's features in high relief. His lips looked like they were simply begging to be kissed. Actually, his whole body was looking that way to her at the moment. Reason abandoned her, as it generally did in his presence. _Go in for the kill. Always._ "Thanks for the book. And the drinks," she said vaguely, pushing her hair back from her face.

"You're drunk, you know," Dr. Riddle pointed out, smirking. "I'll call you a cab. You can't walk like this."

He was about to turn when she stumbled forward, catching herself on his jacket.

"Wait," she said, and stood on her tiptoes, impulsively pressing her lips against his.

Her grip on his jacket slackened as she shut her eyes, inhaling his musky scent deeply and moving her lips against his. She heard and felt him draw a sharp intake of breath. He was not kissing her back. Abruptly he jerked away, and the way everything was spinning was now, quite suddenly, nauseating. She had gone in for the kill, perhaps, but it had been the wrong one. Dr. Riddle was looking scandalized as he stepped back, away from her. Had she imagined the lovely tension between them these past weeks? "Thanks for the book again," she said in a quavering voice, and turning to leave, cast over her shoulder, "I can walk home fine, thanks. I'll call one of my friends."

He said nothing as she slammed the door behind her. Out in the hall, tears began to leak down her cheeks. What on earth had she done? Disgusted with herself for acting like one of his silly sycophantic followers, Hermione let out a choked sob. When she had finally made her way out of the building, she dialed Harry's number with shaking hands.

"'Mione! There you are. Come over; everyone's at Fred and George's new place. We're making cookies and Ron and Lee are having a fistfight on the Wii!" There was a lot of background noise, as was typically found wherever Fred and George were.

"H-harry, I'm drunk and I just did something really, really stupid," she mumbled, sinking against one of the rough brick walls.

"What? I can't hear you. Hold on—no, Fred, it's Hermione—what did you say?" Hermione began to speak again but Harry interrupted her. "Hang on, Ron's losing—yikes—here, I'll hand you over to Fred for a sec. Be right back, 'Mione."

Hermione considered hanging up but all too soon, Fred was on the other end.

"Hermione! Getting into trouble as usual, I expect?" Fred greeted cheerily. Hermione gave a watery laugh.

"I'm fine. How's the new place?"

"Not as beautiful as it would be with you here, love," he teased. "What are you doing and why aren't you here with everyone?"

"Got held up after class," Hermione replied shortly. "Listen, I should go."

"Where are you now? Are you okay?" His voice had lost its teasing edge and was now filled with worry. "You sound upset."

"N-not upset!" she squeaked. "I'll let you go. Talk to you later, Fred." Before he could protest, she hung up and dragged herself to her feet. Drunk and out of sorts was the worst possible condition for her to be in around men who she found attractive, apparently, if the incident in Dr. Riddle's office was anything to go by. It was not a good idea to stay on the phone with Fred. Ashamed and insecure, she stumbled back to her flat, alone, though a surprise was waiting for her outside her door.

"I figured you wouldn't answer your phone," greeted Fred with a smirk, getting up off the front stoop of her building. His eyes roved over her, taking in her appearance. "If your recent behavior is anything to go by, you've decided you want nothing to do with me, and I'm injured, 'Mione," Fred explained. Hermione let out a forced, fake-sounding laugh, though his presence was causing her nerves to act up again. After what had happened with Dr. Riddle, she couldn't take it. Fred was practically engaged, and she didn't trust herself to treat him that way at the moment.

"I've just been busy. Thanks for checking in on me though," she said vaguely. Fred fixed her with a concerned stare.

"Well, Mione, you seemed down..." he cleared his throat. "And I just thought...you could use..." wordlessly he held out a bouquet of daisies, and Hermione reached out to take them just as they squirted water in her face.

"Fred Weasley!" she roared indignantly, quite suddenly forgetting her own humiliation and misery. "I'm going to kill you!"

"Gotta catch me first, don't ya?" he asked cheekily with a wink, and in a flash had stolen her bag and was thundering up her stairs. Hermione sprinted after him, tripping slightly at the stairs and howling deaththreats after the Weasley twin.

* * *

><p>Tom stood stock-still in his office, his fingertips pressed to his lips, as he stared at the door that had just banged shut. The things in his office that had been jiggled by the force of the door shutting finally settled. Tom shook himself out of his surprise and looked out the window of his office. Sure enough, Hermione burst out of the building and began dialing on her phone. He watched with perverse interest as she sank miserably against the wall. Apparently the phone conversation was less than thrilling to her.<p>

It had not been the first time a female student had made a pass at him, but it was certainly the first time it had caught him off guard. As he had drank with Hermione, he had definitely felt her attraction, but he had never guessed she might make a move. Perhaps he'd fed her too much firewhiskey, but at the time it had seemed a marvelous idea. Now he watched her shakily pick herself up.

_You should just forget all about this, _he berated himself_._ Still he found himself shrugging into his coat and snatching his car keys. After packing up his things rather hurriedly, he began the drive home...mysteriously he ended up in front of Hermione Granger's very building.

It was unequivocally his fault, yet by virtue of her taking the chance and kissing him, it was really her own fault as well. Tom considered stopping them and apologizing to Hermione, but it was only a vague and passing interest. Now he watched as the man stepped closer, apparently in an attempt to comfort her. He must have done something to anger her, for she began shrieking at him, and the next thing he knew, she was chasing the man inside her building.

Tom floored it and sped away from Hermione's flat quite suddenly, finding relief in the roar of the engine. It had been stupid to think that she might simply cry herself to sleep over him, really. Hermione was a notably attractive girl; other men, however moronic they were likely to be, were still as likely to see that fire hidden beneath all of her silly morals and values and girlish notions of virtue. Beneath her many annoying constructs, he had seen a complex and exciting young woman...the sort of woman that someone like Bellatrix seemed to stupidly fancy herself to be. No, Hermione Granger was something different.

The burn of firewhiskey and the emptiness that her warm brown eyes had left him with were the only things to accompany him back to his own very empty, very silent flat.


	4. 4: Shiver

The Scientist

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys rock :)

Disclaimer: see chapter one.

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: Shiver<strong>

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><p>Fred bounded up the rickety, cramped stairs of Hermione's apartment building, chuckling at the sound of her screeched death-threats. Even this angry, Hermione was not particularly scary. She was sort of like a very enraged kitten, he mused as he rummaged through her purse for her keys. This was in direct opposition to Angelina, who was terrifying when she was mad.<p>

"Fred Weasley, you had better not be entering my flat!" Hermione bellowed, gasping for breath and clutching her lungs. Fred was much quicker than she and had reached the top floor, where her flat was, in less than half the time it took her. "Bloody athletes," she grumbled, stumbling at the top stair. Still, the activity seemed to have helped to move the alcohol through her system and she was feeling significantly less drunk. Spotting Fred fidgeting with her lock (it always seemed to get stuck; maintenance insisted there was nothing wrong with it of course), Hermione acted without thinking and lunged for him, tackling him. The force of the collision sent them both as well as her bag flying and Hermione landed on top of Fred as he gasped with laughter at her reaction. She had grasped the front of his sweatshirt to steady herself and now realized her hands were digging into lean muscle.

"Hermione, I know I'm quite attractive but it's considered polite to at least wait til you're in the door," Fred teased. Hermione narrowed her eyes into dangerously thin slits and grabbed her bag, hitting him lightly with it. He stopped her by grasping her wrists over their heads, smirking as she fought against him.

"You're incorrigible. What would Angelina say?" Hermione reprimanded him, blushing as she pushed off of him. For the briefest moment, there had been a delicious sort of friction between their bodies. _And that right there is proof that you are simply hormonal and out of control,_ she told herself and went to the door. Fred let out a nervous laugh.

"She'd probably tell you to have at it, actually, seeing as we broke up a few weeks ago," he said in a tone of feigned lightness. Hermione froze in the middle of unsticking her lock; in her surprise she dropped the key fob to the ground. It hit the carpet with a soft_ chink_ as she stared open-mouthed at him.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't know."

Fred flushed slightly but recovered quickly and gave a blase wave of his hand.

"We didn't want to make a big deal of it, I guess," he said offhandedly. The lighthearted mood had been damaged, however. Feeling awkward, Hermione used the motion of grabbing her keys as a chance to look away from his blue eyes. Her skin had not yet forgotten the feel of his hips under hers or his muscular chest under her hands, and considering the emotional level of their current conversation, it was probably a very good idea to forget their moment of contact as fast as possible.

"What happened? If you don't mind my asking, that is." She pushed the door open. "Come inside. If you want, there's coffee or tea."

Fred looked hesitant.

"We grew apart. I should probably head out," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright, since you sounded upset over the phone."

Hermione's heart melted slightly. It had been sweet of him to check on her, and she was impressed that he had heard the sadness in her voice when even Harry had not picked up on it. Still, it made sense: Fred and George were both acutely attuned to others' emotions; it was what made them so genuinely funny. They both had insight into the human experience of others and excelled at playing on it.

"Right. Well, can I give you any food or anything to take with you?" she asked, her eyes softening. He really was cute, standing there in his faded Hogwarts University sweatshirt and rumpled jeans, his short red hair slightly messy from their roughhousing. "I really appreciate you stopping by," she added. "You really cheered me up. Thanks."

His blue eyes flickered to hers. The intensity with which he was looking at her now felt nice, especially after the iciness that had been cast on her by Dr. Riddle. The contrast between these two men was beyond startling, and Hermione inwardly chided herself for ever presuming she and Dr. Riddle could possibly make a good match. He didn't make her feel good about herself, did he?

"No problem," he said after clearing his throat uncomfortably. "I'll see you around, I guess," he added, turning to go. "Don't get into too much trouble!"

Hermione watched him go, listened to his quick footsteps down the stairs, and then the creak and slam of the front door to the complex. Finally she forced herself to go inside her flat. After Fred's warm presence, it felt lonelier than ever, even with Crookshanks purring and weaving around her ankles affectionately.

Now that she was alone and without Fred to occupy her mind, Dr. Riddle's blatant rejection returned afresh, and with it, the humiliating and shameful sting. What a foolish girl she had been, to think he might be attracted to her. Still... remembering how he had smiled, genuinely for once, when talking about his childhood made her heart clench painfully. Why had he revealed that to her, if not to draw her in closer? Or was it that he merely enjoyed taunting his prey, taunting these silly girls by allowing them to feel a sliver of warmth of his attention? Did he find it funny to draw them in and then abruptly push them away?

She was luckily too annoyed with herself to cry, and she looked down at the bouquet of fake daises in her hands, leaking water. Smirking to herself, she held them up to the light, examining them. "Product of Weasley Wheezes and Co." was engraved in a tiny tag on the bottom. It was hard to determine the mechanisms that made the daises spew water, but whatever it was, it was impressive: they looked fairly realistic. Outside in the darkness of evening, she had not even realized they were fake.

Hermione took out her phone, scrolling through her contacts, and found Fred's number. She had gotten it a few years ago when Ron had taken Fred's phone as payback for Fred replacing Ron's condoms with balloons, and made all his calls from it. The phonebill had been enormous, apparently, and since then, Ron had taken to hiding such paraphernalia in a less obvious place, and Fred had become unusually protective of his phone. Hermione grinned at the memory before opening a new text.

**_Thanks for the flowers. I hate to admit but they're really impressive._** She hesitated before adding **_you're cute._** Then she chickened out and went to delete the last bit, but accidentally sent the message.

"Crap, Crookshanks. That was dumb," she groaned, tossing her phone onto the couch. Hopefully her carrier would drop the text and she could pretend it never happened. If Fred had actually been interested in her, he could have made a move now, but he hadn't, had he? Yes, he had brought her flowers, but Fred's reputation as never sleeping alone was well-known. She could not read into his actions like some silly schoolgirl. "Especially since it looks like I'm a bit crap at reading into mens' behavior," she informed Crookshanks, who was stalking her phone. It took her a minute to realize it was because it had buzzed. Her heart leapt and she dove for the phone. There were two new messages.

**_You like being assaulted by your gifts? I'll keep that in mind. I was hoping to find a use for that bobcat..._**

And then...

**_You are pretty cute yourself, Granger._**

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><p>Tom had not been sure of whether to dread seeing Hermione again or not, but in the end decided that it hardly mattered. She was just another infatuated student of his and thus he buried himself in his work. He had an exciting new case to work on, and as it involved his archnemesis, the head of the philosophy department, he was more than happy to allow the case to take over his life. Getting to drop subtle hints to Dumbledore that Bartemius Crouch Jr would not be put in jail—because Tom never once failed his clients—was beyond gratifying. Every time he passed the old fool in the corridors at Hogwarts University, he bared his teeth in a cruel smirk at the man and resisted the urge to do something foolish such as a victory dance.<p>

But that was all fine and well in theory. In practice, having Hermione sit there in the front row, her eyes glued to her notebook, was torture. The tension between them was a hinderance on his concentration, and his class was so very painfully boring without her interrupting him all the time with her frivolous uppityness. She had made plenty of good points, as well, and since the rest of the class were complete morons, Tom fell into his own brand of the doldrums. Days passed and watching her look so meek was infuriating.

It made him want to shake her or something. He disliked this meek, wilting, silent Hermione. He could see no logical reasoning for his infuriation, but there it was. Rather than futilely attempt to reason it out, he decided to simply let himself be annoyed by it. Where was that firecracker, that spitfire, that untamable lioness that he had brought out in her? It was hiding behind this absurd apparition, this false effigy that he refused to acknowledge at face value. Hermione Granger was _not_ some sort of whimpering and skittish gazelle, so why did she insist on acting like one?

Then, one day as he was pacing in his office, working on Crouch's case, he spotted something out his window. Hermione Granger was standing in front of the building, apparently waiting for someone. She looked happy. Had she snapped out of her own whining once and for all? Tom surreptitiously peered out the window, watching with interest as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and her frizzy curls were blowing around her face in the blustery fall sunshine. She was captivating.

A man was approaching her. He swiftly recognized it as the same man that had been outside of her flat -that- night, waiting for her. There was something furtive and shy about the way they began walking together. Was it an affair? Their body language certainly screamed 'illicit.' Tom tore himself from the window, feeling foolish for having watched her from afar with such intrigue. He was hardly the sort of man who needed to follow girls around. In need of something to affirm he wasn't losing his mind, Tom fetched his copy of the Hogsmeade Times. On the front cover was an image of Bartemius Crouch Sr., an old sort-of friend of Dumbledore's. He was not looking too happy. Trying to contain his glee, Tom took the newspaper out of his office and strode up to the philosophy department. Dumbledore was most likely out to lunch, which was perfect for his purposes. Glancing around to secure that he was alone, Tom bent down and inched the newspaper under Dumbledore's door before hurrying back towards his office, smirking broadly to himself.

* * *

><p><em>We shouldn't be doing this. We shouldn't be doing this.<em> Hermione was repeating this mantra in her head as she walked alongside Fred, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. They weren't technically doing anything wrong—he was simply escorting her to Weasley Wheezes so she could see the finished product of all their hard work in decorating the shop. They were even meeting with Harry along the way, who was at Sirius' garage, helping him on his motorbike, so it weren't as though this were just a date in disguise. They were simply two friends walking together to meet a third. So why did it feel so very much like a date?

Perhaps it was the fact that she and Fred had taken to texting. Why was it that texting seemed to be an affirmation of physical chemistry? They didn't text often; only once or twice a day. But all day she would look forward to that text, and subsequently spend a good long while crafting her response. Ever since he had given her the daisies, they had not again said anything that seemed flirtatious on the surface. Yet every interaction seemed to be _charged_ with something. When their friends got together, it was a tacit agreement that they not spend too much time together. Fred and Angelina seemed to be getting along despite the breakup, and Hermione wondered if it had been a long time coming. They had certainly seemed happy enough, but then, wasn't that always the case? Relationships crumbled from the inside. Like buildings, they fell after years of structural decay.

With all of their care in hiding what was going on between them—whatever it was—it seemed that Harry and George's suspicions had been quieted, at least for now. It was a relief. There was something implicitly secretive about this thing and Hermione was reluctant to tell anyone—except Crookshanks, of course—about it.

With much flirting and grinning, Hermione and Fred reached Sirius' garage. Sirius was Harry's godfather and did his best to provide Harry with the father figure that he had grown up without. That was compromised, unfortunately, by Sirius' jailtime. False conviction for a murder had put Sirius behind bars for most of Harry's childhood, and the man had only been released recently. Sirius was found to be innocent, but his reputation had already been dashed and despite being an educated and intelligent man, he could only get a job as a mechanic's assistant. Then again, with his long hair and tattoos and leather jacket, this seemed to suit Sirius just fine.

"Hermione! Fred!" Sirius called from underneath a rusty-looking Cleansweep Seven that had a dent in the front. Hermione recognized it as Ron's car and winced. Ron was probably the worst driver in the world, and while he complained bitterly about having such a shite car, Hermione—and everyone else that knew Ron—privately felt it was for the best, as he would have destroyed a nicer car just as badly. Harry was on the other side of the garage, fixing up his motorbike that Sirius had given him for his eighteenth birthday.

"Ickle Ronniekins blew up his car again? What a surprise. Judging by that car, you'd think he couldn't walk straight," Fred jested as Sirius wiped his grease-covered hands on his low-riding jeans before clapping them against Fred's hand. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"There's only so many times you can change the parts on a car," he agreed dryly. He brightened when his eyes landed on Hermione.

"And look at you! You don't look soulless yet so I'm guessing law school isn't treating you well?" he smirked. Hermione swatted playfully at them as Harry joined them, his cheeks smudged with grease. Recalling a particularly vivid account from Ginny of how sexy she found Harry when he had been working in the garage, Hermione looked away quickly. Some things a girl just didn't need to think about regarding her best friend.

"Law school is fine," she said evenly. "And I'll never be soulless," she added as an afterthought. Sirius chuckled, shaking his head.

"You haven't met most lawyers, then. Come to think of it, you'll probably meet my dear cousin Bellatrix. She's the one who put me in Azkaban," he said thoughtfully. Harry bristled.

"That bitch works at Hogwarts?"

Suddenly the dots connected for Hermione and her jaw dropped as she remembered the lusty woman clinging to Dr. Riddle's arm that night. Her blood seemed to turn to ice. _That_ was the woman who had ruined Sirius' life?

"I met her," Hermione said, her mouth going dry. "I didn't realize she was your cousin." Now that she thought about it, however, she saw the resemblances, however slight. Dark, curly hair, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of their noses, and dark brown eyes that sparkled with rebellion. "She looked horrible. She was clinging to my professor even though she's married," Hermione added bitterly. Thinking of Dr. Riddle made the old hurt and humiliation surge within her and she hastily quelled it. She was not eager to alert her friends to that particular failure.

"You must mean Tom Riddle," concluded Sirius, his cheeks flushing with anger. "That asshole is even worse than Bellatrix," he said darkly. Hermione blanched.

"How?" she demanded, wanting to find out more about Dr. Riddle—especially anything that might kill off her feelings for him for good. Sirius let out a callous, cold laugh.

"Trust me, he's the singularly most ruthless and soulless human being there ever was. In fact, he doesn't even seem human. I'm just glad it was Bella and not him assigned to cross-examine me, because in that case I'd have never gotten out." Sirius kicked at the ground. "Bloody bastard. Just follow the case on a kid named Barty Crouch Jr. and you'll find out."

Hermione felt sick and was quiet as she walked with Fred and Harry to Weasley Wheezes after that. Even though she'd always found Sirius to be a bit immature and impulsive, she trusted his opinions of other people—he generally was a good judge of character. And he seemed to despise Dr. Riddle even more than he had despised the woman who had ruined his life, which spoke volumes on Dr. Riddle's character.

By the time they had reached the shop, however, Hermione became caught up in the excitement of the joke shop opening. Fred and George were at their liveliest, and the atmosphere was so merry that she forgot about Dr. Riddle. They tested out products and Hermione spent several minutes attempting to remove black shoepolish from her eye after inspecting a joke-telescope that left a black ring around her eye.

The excitement of every so often catching Fred's eye as he made a clever joke filled her. When he winked at her it left her jittery and pleased, though she was careful to hide these feelings. She left with Harry and they happily talked about the afternoon's events before parting ways. Left alone, Hermione was reminded of her disturbing conversation with Sirius, and she found herself tracing a path to the enormous Hogwarts library.

Hidden among the stacks and the lovely scent of old books, Hermione opened her laptop and began her search for information on the case of Barty Crouch Jr. Hours passed as she pored over information regarding the man.

Apparently there had been some sort of problem with his father, and now Hermione realized why she recognized the name Barty Crouch: his father, Bartemius Crouch Sr., was something of a name in politics. He took a very conservative stance, it seemed, while his son, who had been a troublemaking activist since his youth, stood on the opposite end of the political spectrum. The details of the case were sordid, but it came down to the fact that Barty Crouch Sr.'s wife had gone missing. As Hermione flicked through website after website, she recognized that the case she had intruded on the other day with Dumbledore had been this very case, and the woman being cross-examined by Tom had been Mrs. Crouch's sister.

It seemed that Tom was hell-bent on letting the younger Crouch walk free, even though it seemed glaringly obvious, after watching clips of trials and interviews, that this young Barty was pure evil. Somehow Dr. Dumbledore was involved in all of this, though she could not find his name in any articles, no matter how hard she searched. Eventually curiosity won out and Hermione hurried through the approaching evening to the philosophy department with the intention of asking Dumbledore for clarification.

The halls were dark; it seemed the majority of the professors had already left for the night. Hogwarts was old, and slightly creepy at night. Hermione shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as she hurried through the corridors towards the philosophy department. Unfortunately, when she finally found Dumbledore's office, he was gone.

Sighing with frustration, Hermione turned, though the sound of shoes clicking along the floor startled her, followed by a door being locked shut. Down the hall, Dr. Riddle was leaving his office for the day. Anger at what he was doing to free Barty Crouch boiled in her blood and she promptly forgot the awkwardness between them.

"Dr. Riddle!" she called, beginning to sprint down the hall towards him. He looked up from locking his door. His grey wool coat was on and his glasses were still perched on his nose. He looked so innocent and handsome that she almost was fooled. Almost, but not quite. In his arms he was carrying a fine leather briefcase that she knew was likely filled with notes from Crouch's case.

"So you're done playing the shy little girl, I hope?" he greeted dryly, arching one eyebrow over the rim of his horn-rimmed glasses. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Crouch is a murderer," she said hotly. "Any fool can see it."

Dr. Riddle did not seem too surprised by the seeming nonsequitur. Stowing his keys in the pocket of his wool coat, he turned to her, looking indifferent to her anger as ever.

"If you want to waste your time fighting for justice, become a caped crusader for all it's worth. Though you'll find that even then it is hard to win against those cleverer than you," he replied acidly.

"I was under the impression that you thought me to be particularly clever," she bit back. "You seem to keep company with people who are even less interested in justice than you. Your friend put my best friend's godfather on death row even though he was innocent."

Recognition sparked in Dr. Riddle's dark eyes and he took a step closer, amusement dawning on his face.

"Ah, you must mean Sirius Black. Yes, Bellatrix is quite ruthless—if a bit...indelicate, shall we say." He paused to rub his chin thoughtfully. "And you're partially right: I did, for a time, find you uncommonly intelligent. But you proved me wrong when you practically attacked me in your lust. Did you ever honestly think I would be interested in a girl like you?" he sneered. Hermione felt like she couldn't quite draw breath as the blood drained from her face. After the initial shock, hatred surged through her. She _hated_ Dr. Riddle, _hated_ him more than she had ever despised anyone in her entire life. And his words were stinging worse than if he had slapped her. She wanted to hurt him, to humiliate him as he had hurt and humiliated her.

"I was drunk," she said finally. Dr. Riddle looked amused and quite unconvinced, so she pressed on. "I would _never_ lust after a vicious and bitter man like you. You'll die alone, an old and unloved man. When your handsome face decays, what will you have left to help you in your performance? Nothing. Your beauty is all you have, and you won't have it for much longer."

Anger flashed in Dr. Riddle's eyes and she felt pleased that she had gotten to him. "Good evening, Dr. Riddle," she added haughtily, tossing her hair as she began to breeze past him. Abruptly he reached out and grasped her arm, forcing her to face him roughly. The only sounds in the corridor were that of her sneakers screeching against the floor and her sharp gasp of surprise.

Their eyes met as hatred, pure, venomous hatred, passed between them.

"No one speaks that way to me," he hissed. "You forget you are just a lowly student, and if it should so please me, I can crush your future and simply fail you."

That managed to ignite fear in her heart and Hermione attempted to wrench out of his grip. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him, hard.

"You can't do that. If you do that to me, I'll simply make it my business to ruin your career."

"I'd like to see you try," he hissed with a harsh, biting smirk. Hermione returned it.

"I'd like to see you try to ruin my future. I can take the matter to the heads of the department and prove I don't deserve to fail."

They seemed to be at a stalemate. His long fingers still gripped her arms and her hands were still flat against his chest. They were both flushed with anger, chests heaving with the intensity of their interaction.

And then something quite strange happened: he had pushed her against the door to his office just as she had fisted her hands on his wool coat. Their lips crushed together as Hermione felt herself simultaneously shatter and melt at the contact, her entire body quivering as though a single nerve. He tasted like coffee. His cologne and the scent of the leather of his briefcase filled the air around her as she breathed him in, pressing her tongue to his lips. What had happened? She could not process what was so suddenly occurring. All she knew was that his lovely lips were angled against hers and his fingers were digging into her arms and the handle to his door was hurting her back and it all was too much sensation yet she wanted _more._

Just as soon as it had begun, it ended. They jerked away from each other, gasping still.

"What the hell was that, Granger?" Dr. Riddle demanded angrily, raking a hand through his dark hair and turning away from her. Hermione glowered at him.

"I could ask you the same thing," she said acidly. With shaking hands, she pushed herself from his door and stormed past him. "Don't touch me. Ever again," she ordered hotly as she walked away.

"Then don't touch me," he retorted.

Out in the crisp night air, Hermione wondered how it had all gone wrong. What had happened? As she clutched her coat tighter, she tried to pinpoint where the furious anger between them had morphed into lust. Yet she could not find the seam: one second she had been ready to tear his throat out, the next, she had been ready to tear his pants off. And why, exactly, was she so upset that he was defending Barty Crouch Jr.? He was right; it was his _job_. No one wanted to defend the criminals, but if he didn't, he'd likely either be out of a job or only get assigned to the most boring, menial cases. Out here in the sober air, away from his damned smirk and pretty eyes, she could see she had been acting unreasonable.

Whose fault had the kiss been, anyway? She couldn't figure that one out, either. Hermione checked her phone, hoping to find a text from Fred to distract her, but there were sadly no new messages.

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><p>What had just happened? Tom began storming down the corridor, stopping at the mens' room to splash icy water over his face. The official term for it was that he had sexually assaulted a student. This was not a level he had ever thought he would stoop to. His keen mind reviewed the events, attempting to come to a conclusion of how it had happened. It hadn't <em>felt<em> like he'd forced himself on her. It rather had felt like she had been tugging on an invisible cord, pulling him forcefully towards her. It hadn't felt like he had had a choice in the matter.

The fact that she could so easily, so slyly dominate him made him uncomfortable and perhaps a bit intrigued. For all of his shock at the kiss, there was also the fact that he had been missing this passionate, fiery side of Hermione. He knew she was inherently_ not_ a dull woman. She was exciting, dark, mysterious to him.

She had, for the first time in his life, made him lose his admirable self-control and do something without thinking. And even though he was enraged, he was also impressed.


	5. 5: Don't Stand So Close To Me

The Scientist

Author's Note: **_Warning:_** there is M-rated content in this chapter. It's not a full-on lemon or anything, but it's definitely not something you'd want to read with your grandmother. Consider yourselves warned.

Also, thanks to every single one of you lovely people who reviewed! I really hope you guys continue to read this little bit of fluff :P

Disclaimer: I do not own the HP universe; it belongs to JKR.

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><p><strong>Chapter Five: Don't Stand So Close To Me<strong>

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><p>Hermione was at a loss. On the one hand, she was completely infuriated to the point where she was only seeing red. On the other hand...Dr. Riddle's kiss had stirred something in her and inflamed her senses. By the time she reached her flat, she was only beginning to recover from the intense heat that had taken over. She hated how much the roughness of the kiss had turned her on. He hadn't even <em>asked<em> to kiss her! And she had simply stomped her feet and stormed away, like some sort of victimized idiot! _You kissed him first_, a tiny and irritating voice pointed out. Mentally Hermione stabbed that voice. She also stabbed the voice that pointed out how enthusiastically she had kissed back.

After such a frustrating evening, Hermione's feelings towards Dr. Riddle were something like icy daggers that spewed flames. No, it was not physically possible, but then it seemed on-the-nose to describe things related to Dr. Riddle in such a way. On top of that, Fred had not texted her yet, and she was beginning to wonder if that were going to be just another source of irritation in her life instead of a good shag or ten after all.

Considering she had always prided herself on her practicality, Hermione was also annoyed at herself. Why was she putting up with this stupidity, anyway? She was Hermione Granger, dammit! She did _not_ take shit from anyone, and she also was technically too busy with law school to be fielding Fred's middle-school-appropriated advances as well as Dr. Riddle's moodiness. It wasn't right to be interested in two different guys, and it also wasn't right to be interested in her professor. After checking her phone for the umpteenth time, Hermione's irritation spiked.

"Bloody hell. Boys are so stupid, Crookshanks," she grumbled, shrugging into her worn peacoat and stuffing the dreaded phone into her bag. "Don't look at me like that. Yes, I'm going to confront him. And if I find out that this flirting has been in my head? Well, fine, then at least I know!"

Crookshanks either looked highly dubious, or she was losing her mind. Deciding to_ not_ debate on the unfortunate probability that it was the latter, Hermione stormed off to the headquarters of Weasley Wheezes and Co. She plowed along the city blocks, nearly knocking down anyone who stood in her way, muttering angrily to herself. In most cases her insecurities would have pulled her back, and coaxed her back to her flat. But the weirdness of the kiss she had shared with Dr. Riddle left adrenaline coursing through her, and brought a strange and quite sudden clarity.

Hermione pounded her fist on the door to Fred and George's flat impatiently, her cheeks flushed. George opened the door, currently in the midst of stuffing pizza in his mouth. The front of his hair was slightly singed.

"Hermione's on the warpath... going to tell the teachers on me?" he teased as greeting. Hermione narrowed her eyes into slits.

"Is Fred home?" she asked, her voice dangerously sweet. George had the grace to look a bit scared now.

"Brother dear...you have a guest..." he called unsteadily over his shoulder. "Come in...as long as you promise not to go on a rampage or anything..."

Hermione followed George inside the flat. The living room was covered in sketches and half-finished projects, and on the table in the kitchen something lumpy was smoking profusely, which explained George's singed hair. It was admirable how within a few weeks, the twins had managed to make this place look like they'd lived in it for years.

"Oh, Hermione!" Fred came out of what she assumed was his room, wearing his trademark rumpled jeans but no shirt, toweling off his hair. It was a mark of how black of a mood Hermione was in that she was not flustered by the sight of his lean chest and the trail of auburn hair running down his flat abdomen and disappearing in the waistband of his jeans. "What're you doing here?"

"Can we talk for a moment?" her hands were on her hips and Fred was a bit turned on by the dangerous gleam in her eyes. He was never one to be afraid of Hermione, and he grinned wickedly at her.

"Trying to get me alone? You don't have to trick me; I'll come willingly," he teased.

"Yes," Hermione said flatly.

Okay, he was a bit nervous now. Warily he went into his room and yanked on a long-sleeved shirt and socks before returning to the living room. "Outside," she ordered tersely. Fred followed Hermione out of the apartment, stopping to shove his feet into his sneakers. George shot him a look that somehow managed to be both pitying and amused at his expense. Rolling his eyes, Fred shut the door. Hermione was deathly silent as they went out to the courtyard behind the building. Fred found it funny that the landlord called it a courtyard, because it was in fact simply a square of cement with walls all around it. Weeds were growing through the cracks in the gravel. Courtyard implied it was pleasant to be in, and this place was most certainly not pleasant to be in.

"Is...everything okay?" he ventured when Hermione finally turned to face him and began talking in a very loud, very fast, very high voice, gesturing wildly with her hands.

"You broke up with your girlfriend, you brought me flowers, and we text every day. You always flirt with me. This has been going on for weeks, and frankly, I am tired of playing emotional hide-and-seek. Are you interested in me or not?" She stopped, chest heaving and face red. Fred blinked in shock. This was not what he had been expecting. "I'm not the kind of girl who is faced with these situations very often, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't toy with my feelings."

His mouth had gone very dry. Still, with her eyes flashing and her chest heaving, he was even more turned on. Unlike most girls, Hermione was very sexy when she was pissed off. He didn't know what to say, but then, he had always been a man of action and not words, as actions rather famously spoke louder than words. So with a smirk he strode forward and, without touching her otherwise, angled his lips over hers.

Hermione let out a squeal of surprise, but didn't step back. It was not the searing, painful kiss that she and Dr. Riddle had shared hours ago, but that didn't mean it wasn't good. In fact, she could probably enjoy not getting bruises from a kiss. The scent of laundry detergent, soap, and toothpaste filled the air. It wasn't that dangerous, inviting, musky cologne, but it was still quite attractive and Hermione leaned into the kiss as Fred parted her lips with his tongue rather mischievously. Her hands rested against his hard chest as his hands slipped to rest on her hips...though his left hand was moving slyly to her arse. She slapped his hand away and he laughed against her mouth.

He was quite skilled, which Hermione could get used to. Ron's kisses had always been appallingly sloppy, and every guy since then had seemed to be mystified by the idea of keeping their saliva confined to their mouths. She also was pretty sure she could get used to the feel of his hard muscles under her hands. Did he still work out? Or was it just another maddening advantage of being an athletic young man that kept his physique so very appealing?

"Oi! Freddy!"

They jerked away from each other at the sound of George's voice. George was leaning out the window of their flat that overlooked the courtyard.

"Yes?" Fred called up rather testily. George chuckled.

"Oh, nothing. Just didn't want you kids to have too much fun," he said cheekily before disappearing inside and shutting the window. Fred and Hermione glanced between each other and both snorted.

"I take it you do like me, then," Hermione finally said. The kiss had sort of completely obliterated her previous foul mood, and now she was just filled with lust. It had definitely been too long since her last shag and the sight of Fred looking so mischievous had her absolutely happy to rectify that at his first convenience. He grinned at her.

"No, I do that to everyone," he jested, narrowly missing Hermione's consequent slap. For a moment they were quiet now.

"I'm not sure if it's right, though..." Hermione began uncomfortably. Fred sighed, for once looking serious.

"I know. Why do you think I hadn't put the moves on you yet?" He raked a hand through his short fiery hair. It pleased Hermione that he was just as incoherent and lust-filled as she was. The moral part of her brain was telling her that it was disrespectful to Angelina to do this, but right now the rest of her was happily attempting to stuff the moral part into a small box, lock it, and throw away the key with glee. "Come on; it's cold. We can talk about this inside, in private."

Hermione followed Fred up the stairs. Was she doing the wrong thing? Everyone deserved a chance at happiness, and deep down she knew that if she hadn't confronted him tonight, they would not have stopped this immature flirting either. And that needed to stop. In Fred's bedroom, she was unsure of where to sit, but Fred immediately hopped onto his bed and patted the covers next to him, his back against the wall. Hesitantly Hermione crawled onto the bed and sat against the wall next to him. Loud bangs were coming from the living room where George was still working.

"Why did you guys break up?" She was hoping, even though it was wrong, that perhaps Angelina had cheated on him which would make her feel better about them getting together so soon. Fred laughed.

"Actually, I broke it off." He paused, looking shy for the briefest moment. "My eyes were...beginning to wander, I guess. I felt like after all Ange and I had been through, she deserved better than that. I'd never cheat on her, but I didn't want to be thinking about another girl when I was with her."

Hope surged within Hermione. She tried to tell herself that it was not likely that he was talking about her, but excited butterflies still filled her. She had never been a man's first choice before. Even between her and Ron, Ron had happily gallivanted with other girls for years before that fateful night they had tumbled into bed together.

"You did the right thing," she said finally. "How did Angelina take it?"

"Oh, she wasn't too pleased to say the least. I don't blame her, obviously. But I think it was less difficult to end it than we both expected. We almost never saw each other except around our friends, so it wasn't like our daily lives changed so much. I always slept at her place, but even then we usually just...went to sleep. And you know, we were together for so many years...I think we were both sort of ready for a change."

Hermione didn't question him further. It wasn't her business to know. Still, finding out that it had been such a detached break-up made her feel exponentially better about the whole thing. She wasn't sure what to say, because consoling him in this situation was a bit ridiculous.

"...You're not involved, right?" it was unsettling to see Fred so unsure of himself and Hermione snorted at his question. Still, the kisses she had shared with Dr. Riddle were burned into her brain, though they were both tinged with a fair amount of humiliation. Clearly she had been so desperate for interaction with a man that she had thrown herself at Dr. Riddle. Her brain had probably simply short-circuited because he was so very beautiful and they had been alone together for so long. But here, with Fred, she felt pleasantly fluttery and not _scared_...though that same small voice annoyingly pointed out that she had never experienced such powerful, painful desire as when Dr. Riddle had thrown her against his door and crushed his lips against hers.

"Of course not, you prat," she said matter-of-factly. Fred waggled his eyebrows at her, and before Hermione could make fun of him for the motion, he pounced, knocking her back onto the bed. She let out a shriek of surprise before laughing and gasping for air as he tickled her. And then suddenly they were kissing again, and she was feeling daring enough to slip her fingers underneath his shirt and rake her nails along the trail of hairs that led to the waistband of his pants. Still, she was not the type to just give in right away, and so she hastily brought her hands back up to his back. His knees were planted in between hers, their tongues sliding against each other sensually.

"Probably a bad idea to rip your pants off right now," Fred said breathlessly against her mouth. Rather disappointedly, she agreed and they pulled away.

After a few hours of talking, Fred walked Hermione back to her own flat. He pressed a kiss to her cheek before leaving, his hands shoved in his pockets, and it was such a sweet, chaste kiss that she found herself too filled with butterflies to concentrate properly. Giggling to herself, she readied for bed. In her bathroom, however, as she slipped off her jumper, something caught her eye: the bruises on her upper arms from when Dr. Riddle had kissed her. She could have pressed for sexual assault, but then, she had forced herself on him as well, hadn't she?

_I was drunk that time_, she consoled herself. _But...was I drunk enough to kiss him?_

Deep down she knew that her inebriation was a flimsy excuse. She had kissed Dr. Riddle because she had wanted to, and while he had bruised her, it had been an accident and he had seemed just as upset by the kiss as she had been. That, and...

She sank into her mattress and turned off her light. In the darkness, she could admit that the kiss had caused her to heat up in more ways than one. Kissing Fred had been lovely, but the kiss with Dr. Riddle had been something rare and unconceivable. The moment he had gripped her upper arms, heat had pooled between her legs as her eyes had made contact with his. Hermione let out a sigh, recalling the pain of the door handle digging into her back, his cologne, his smooth lips greedily kissing the life from her... Damp heat gathered between her legs again now, goosebumps rising along her skin.

_Just sexual frustration from cutting the activity with Fred short,_ she thought. Again it was a flimsy excuse. She tried to distract herself by thinking of that intriguing trail of hair down Fred's abdomen, but she found herself wondering if Dr. Riddle had the same thing. He didn't seem like a hairy type but sometimes you could be surprised. He was taller than Fred, with a more svelte, graceful form. Fred was all energy and lean, hard muscle.

It seemed like Fred was fairly competent...and the idea of finally being with someone good in bed was exciting. Almost immediately her brain jumped to wondering what Dr. Riddle was like in bed, and she had to bury her face in her pillow to smother her scream of frustration.

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><p>It seemed a day like any other. Tom had showered and dressed and eaten his breakfast on his way to work, his mind kept off of the previous night's kiss only by forcing himself to mull over the details of Barty Crouch Jr.'s case. By the time he reached the critical theory classroom, he was lost in thought and thus was completely surprised to find the lecture hall empty...save for one person.<p>

Hermione Granger was sitting in her usual seat in the front, her bushy hair tied back into a messy plait and her lips pursed slightly as she squinted at an article of some sort. She seemed to be so absorbed in her reading that she had not noticed him enter. It occurred to Tom that she might have found some way to confront him about the kiss and making sure that no one attended his lecture could easily be part of that plan. She was a clever girl and Tom would not put it past her to come up with some creative way of assuring her classmates' absence.

"Miss Granger. Care to share with me why you're the only one here? Surely not everyone is sick," he greeted dryly, shutting the door behind him. Hermione jumped up as though galvanized. When her pretty brown eyes settled on him, however, they narrowed into an icy glare.

"Dr. Riddle. Just the man I didn't want to see," she retorted. "How could you do that to me last night?" She stood up and began striding towards him, stopping in front of the podium that he normally left his things on. Tom was shocked by her attire: it looked to be a parody of a classic schoolgirl uniform. He raised his brows at her. This was definitely the polar opposite of her usual nondescript, shapeless getup. It was far more enticing. Who knew she had been hiding such delicious legs inside those faded jeans? He would never have suspected it. The knee socks accentuated the sensual swell of her shapely calves and seemed to highlight just how short that skirt was. The distance from the hem of the skirt to the top of the knee socks seemed endless and his mouth went dry at the sight of it. She wore a large white button-up over top that was left untucked, though he was positive that he could see the faintest hint of a lacy bra through the shirt. A striped tie hung loosely around her neck.

"Do what?" he asked rather stupidly, wanting to smack himself for such idiocy. Seeing so much of her soft pale skin was doing bad things to his normally uncommonly sharp intellect. Hermione looked up at him through thick lashes.

"You kissed me and then just left me wanting so much more." Her tone had softened to an alluring murmur, her pretty mouth in a pout that made desire shoot straight to his groin. She stepped forward and stroked his tie, letting out a sad little sigh.

"This isn't appropriate. Didn't I tell you that I had no interest in you? Besides, you're a student." He could not maintain his icy tone when her hips were pressed against his. Surely she could feel his arousal? Her tiny, talented hands slid up to his shoulders and as she stood on her tiptoes, her body rubbed against his in such a way that he had to grip the edge of the podium to avoid gripping her body instead.

"But I want you so much. I was so wet for you," she whispered against the shell of his ear, her hot breath tickling, her tongue flicking over the skin. "Please, Dr. Riddle," she begged. "I need you."

Tom woke up with a start, gasping, sweat sliding down his skin. Lust clouded his mind but receded rapidly in the chill of his flat—he never turned the heat on—and he clenched the covers as he attempted to understand what had just happened. At the moment, he was more turned on than he had ever been in his life, though he had not found release, thankfully. He wasn't some pathetic bloody teenager, after all.

Really, it had been such a stupid dream. As if his female students hadn't tried playing the naughty-but-nice schoolgirl for him before! It had never aroused anything but annoyance in him before. On top of that, he highly doubted Hermione was uninhibited enough to ever wear such a skimpy outfit, let alone whisper such wanton words in his ear. She probably wanked to doing it missionary and having it last less than five minutes, considering how innocent she seemed towards the ways of men. For crying out loud, she hadn't even noticed the way that redheaded bloke was looking at her that time in the Three Broomsticks!

Still... Hermione was a surprising woman. Perhaps she was the kinky type. Desire rippled through him again as he tried not to picture that. Honestly, of all the embarrasing things to occur... dreaming of Hermione Granger in a slutty schoolgirl outfit was probably up there in the top ten for Tom. Humiliating, juvenile, and _so_ uncreative...

But now he was really, really desperate to know if her legs really did look like that in a pleated skirt and knee socks. And considering he had always had an overactive and highly accurate imagination...he had the feeling he was right on the mark. It was going to take a lot of effort to force himself to not find ways to trick her into wearing a slutty schoolgirl outfit.

Damn.


	6. 6: Parachutes

The Scientist

Author's Note: Ha. Ha. Ha. Remember when I thought this would be done in 5 chapters, max?

Ha.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. If I didn't reply to your review yet, I will get to it soon, and I really appreciate all of the lovely feedback I've gotten on this fic. Hopefully will keep it to a minimum of 10 chapters. I know a lot of you are Bad Romance readers, so don't worry—this story is sort of just to get the fluff out of my system so I don't muck up Bad Romance with fluff. I still fully plan to continue updating BR regularly. **Finishing both of my Tomione fics is part of my NaNoWriMo contribution, so they will get updated at the usual pace**.

Also, special thanks to **Ruby Shoelaces**, who is lovely and awesome, for helping me with a lot of legal things.

Warnings: a bit of relatively harmless lime.

Disclaimer: I do not own the HP universe; it belongs to JKR.

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><p><strong>Chapter Six: Parachutes<strong>

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><p>Hermione had expected that her next interaction with Dr. Riddle would be painfully awkward, and she had been right: they keenly avoided any eye-contact, and every time his dark eyes swept over her, humiliation surged through her. Still, her phone had buzzed several times already with text messages from Fred, which kept the bad feelings at bay.<p>

It was hard to focus on a lecture—even one from Dr. Riddle, who was the best lecturer she'd ever seen—when she knew she was getting text messages from her brand new boyfriend. Her first real boyfriend, really. She and Fred had agreed to not make too big a deal out of it, as it was so soon after his breaking things off with Angelina. While she wasn't thrilled that she couldn't fulfill her urges and go around shouting that she had a boyfriend, it was enough to know he was thinking of her and was just as happy as well.

Meanwhile, Tom was cursing his overactive imagination profoundly. The minute Hermione Granger had walked into the room, he had been transported back to his dream, wherein her smooth bare thighs were just waiting to be—

_Don't go there_, he warned himself sharply. Luckily he had always been apt at mastering himself and his own emotions, so he simply continued on with the lecture, being careful to not let his gaze to stray to Hermione. Unfortunately his eyes seemed magnetically drawn to her, and when he turned away from the chalkboard to face the class, his eyes landed on her.

Did she have _any_ idea of what men commonly thought of when they saw a woman sucking on the end of her pen? Tom was fully ready to commit murder in his own frustration. _And when asked for the motive, if I showed a picture of Granger sucking her pen like that, I'm sure everyone would understand,_ he thought dryly, far too relieved when it was time for class to end. Hastily he returned to his office, preparing to lose himself in his work for the next few hours and forget all about stupid, boyish, naughty dreams about his student.

He began pacing his office. How could he get Barty, who had overwhelming evidence against him, acquitted? It was definitely his most difficult case yet. But as he was pacing, one hand behind his back and the other rubbing his chin thoughtfully, a knock sounded at the door. Irritation spiked in Tom. If it was another bloody law student wanting to prove their worth, he might have to simply strangle them. He considered ignoring the knock. But what if it were Dumbledore? Then he'd have a chance to gloat about the headway he was making on the case...

"Come in," he finally said grudgingly.

He should have known. Hermione Granger was standing there, looking like she was trying very hard to ignore her own timidness. A defiant gleam shown in her brown eyes. She was, notably, not in a schoolgirl uniform in the slightest. Her worn peacoat over a sweatshirt and shapeless jeans was hardly provocative, so why was he feeling so warm? "Miss Granger," he greeted icily, "I had thought after last evening's...events...you would be disinclined to see me."

"I wanted to try and clear things up between us," she stammered, her cheeks reddening. "I just wanted to apologize for kissing you the other night. I was drunk." She drew in a deep breath now, as though stabilizing herself for what she was about to utter. "And about last night..."

Tom raised his eyebrows at her, waiting. "...This would be your cue to apologize and offer some explanation," she said dryly, narrowing her eyes at him. Tom snorted.

"I have nothing for which to apologize, Miss Granger. What happened last night was a complete fluke, and while I appreciate that this is difficult for you, I must tell you that I cannot return your interest."

Hermione seemed to explode. Her stance changed: at first it had been shy and sort of drawn-in, but now her hands were on her hips and sparks seemed to be flying.

"I would just like to point out that _you_ tackled me and forced yourself on _me_!" she hissed hotly. Tom's lips twitched; she was amusing when she was angry. "And as for any...interest...I'll have you know that I have a boyfriend now!" her voice had gone shrill and high-pitched. "You kissed me last night, and I was originally willing to put it in the past, but since you refuse to acknowledge what you did, I'll have to report this!"

She clearly had meant for it to be a threat but Tom was hardly shaking in his shoes. He leaned against his desk a bit lazily, regarding her with utter amusement tinged with lust.

"Right, because it would be entirely believable that I'd have to force myself on a female student," he parried dryly. Hermione's expression had gone grim: clearly she saw her predicament but did not wish to acknowledge that he was right. As he watched her apparently suffer some sort of inward battle, his eyes drifted to her denim-clad legs. It was hard to tell what she really looked like underneath all that... _Stop thinking about it,_ he ordered himself, lest he cloud his mind with lust. _It is just the product of a schoolboy dream, nothing more._

"...Fine. But I'm warning you—touch me like that again..."

"I assure you it will not happen again—not even in your wildest dreams," he said curtly. Hermione reddened further. It seemed like her hair had become even wilder in her rage. Still, after a moment, she deflated.

"Well, fine," she said a bit lamely.

Dr. Riddle was looking at her with such infuriating amusement that she wished to have the last word, but couldn't find any way. For everything she threw at him, he gave back as good as he got. He was also looking particularly delectable in his light blue striped oxford, the sleeves rolled up. Did he own any casual clothes? It was impossible to picture him in a tee shirt and jeans. With his arms crossed and his lips curling into a devious smirk, her brain seemed to not be willing to work on its own and she struggled for words.

"Anything else I can help you with today, Miss Granger?" he asked a bit smugly. Hermione glowered.

"Yes, actually—I also came because I had some questions about the lecture today." She set her backpack down and rifled through it before producing lecture notes. "Today, when you were discussing the benefits of adversarial versus inquisitorial systems..."

Tom marveled at how suddenly she had reverted back to her calmer, more clinical, intellectual self. Hermione tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as her warm brown eyes scanned her notes quickly. He could tell she was a speed-reader, which pleased him. It was beyond irritating to have to wait ages for a student to read through something, and usually he did not hold back from pointing out that while they were leisurely slogging through words, he was not getting any younger. "Yes, here it is: you say that adversarial is better because it makes the courtroom more like a battlefield. Wouldn't that be a major disadvantage?"

Hermione watched Dr. Riddle consider her question, his gaze heavy on her as he stared contemplatively at her. "Because then a witness might become intimidated and lie or something just to take the heat off of themselves," she added hastily.

"A fair point, but I think it's harder for someone to lie when they are under pressure. If you'll recall that trial from 1712..."

For an hour they debated the issue, though Hermione did not realize how time was ticking away so quickly. Alone with Dr. Riddle in his office, she had the full benefit of his fantastic lecturing skills. Up close and personal, he was even more captivating. Especially since here, among all of his books and contraptions, he seemed in his element. He understood law more thoroughly than she had ever known anyone to understand any subject. He practically had it down to a science!

Still, he wore no wedding ring. His life had to be lonely, for only twice had she seen him with other adults—and both of those times had involved Bellatrix. Did he prefer it that way, to be surrounded by his own brilliance and knowledge? Standing there at the blackboard filled with notes on cases, underneath the models of the solar system spinning and catching the fall daylight, was he happy that way?

Eventually he and Hermione both realized they were running late, and rather seamlessly found themselves walking across campus together. Fall at Hogwarts had always been an impressive sight: cobblestone walkways wound their way through trees that seemed to have burst into flame, with their red and orange leaves. The gothic stone buildings always reminded her of castles and knowing there was so much history associated with each building made her shiver slightly. The place had a feel of old magic to it and was probably the deciding factor when she had been applying to schools.

But it was even better to walk along the gorgeous grounds with Dr. Riddle. As they walked, they passed other law students, and Hermione secretly enjoyed the jealous stares. They weren't just from girls who found him handsome—everyone wanted a chance to debate with Dr. Riddle. Though the fact that he was so very handsome was an added bonus. In his dark wool coat with his leather briefcase he cut an impressive figure, and his dark gleaming hair looked a bit lighter in the bright sun. When he laughed at one of her jokes, warmth ran through her. Not only did he seem to find her funny, but when he laughed, she couldn't tear her eyes from his face. The chilly air had tinged his cheeks slightly pink, giving him a boyish, mischievous look about him.

She wished it would never end, walking through campus with Dr. Riddle. It was a relief that they had been able to put the kiss behind them, since she had never met anyone more enjoyable to debate with. Unfortunately, like all good things, it came to an end when up ahead she saw Harry, Ginny, and Fred, whom she were supposed to be meeting.

"There are my friends," she said, pointing at the trio standing beneath one of the more fantastic and old trees. The leaves almost exactly matched Ginny and Fred's flaming hair. Dr. Riddle squinted slightly as he scrutinized the group.

"The redheads are related, and the girl is madly in love with the one with the glasses," he deduced immediately. Hermione scoffed. "I'm right, aren't I? But it seems like she's trying a bit hard. Look how she laughs way too hard at everything he says. He can't possibly be that funny. No one is that funny," he continued thoughtfully.

"Ginny's been after Harry for a long time, but he always says that long-distance relationships won't work." Just then, it seemed Fred had noticed her and Dr. Riddle approaching, and grinned broadly, waving at her. Hermione felt her cheeks heat up.

"And that's the new boyfriend," Dr. Riddle added shrewdly. "Not bad; he doesn't look completely moronic."

"Fred's very smart, actually, but he's never been interested in academic pursuits. He was always a bit of a jock in high school and now he owns a joke shop with his brother."

"Well, opposites supposedly do attract, though I find that after that they quickly repel. Not to discourage you or anything."

They turned to look at each other now. It seemed every time they veered out of academic territory, an argument threatened to arise. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"You know, this is the first time something like this is actually working out for me," she said hotly. Dr. Riddle raised an eyebrow.

"Let me guess—you often get saddled with idiotic, inexperienced little boys who cannot possibly comprehend that women have needs as well? And I bet you've probably settled for much less just to try and make things work out?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed for a different reason now.

"Let me guess—you have one night stands here and there because you find most people are not worth the effort that it takes to be in a relationship. And you scorn other people in love when deep down you're actually quite lonely," she retorted. Dr. Riddle's lips twitched as he looked down at her, his eyes glimmering with amusement.

"You've hit the nail on the head, Miss Granger," he observed. "Except for the loneliness part. I have always been a solitary person; it is simply how I operate best."

"You sound like a robot. Ever had your heart broken?" It was certainly hard to picture Dr. Riddle crying over a breakup. Now he was laughing at her again, and even though it was humiliating to have him perpetually amused by her, she also secretly relished any opportunity to make him laugh.

"Not yet. I'm usually the one doing the breaking."

For a moment they lapsed into silence. Feeling it was time to part, Hermione looked down, clearing her throat.

"Thanks for chatting with me about the lecture notes. I really appreciate the clarification," she said awkwardly.

"My pleasure," he replied, his voice a bit soft. It hardened back to its usual icy detachment with what he said next: "It's always a relief to have at least one student who apparently learned their a-b-c's."

Hermione smirked at him before shaking her head.

"So cruel and cold. Well...I'll see you next lecture. And even though I disagree with it, good luck on the Barty Crouch case." she turned to walk towards her friends and looked over her shoulder when she heard him laugh again.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I have _never_ needed luck to win a case," he drawled before turning and heading off in another direction. For a moment, Hermione watched him go. He was confidently striding, garnering longing or admiring stares from most passerby, his hair catching the light.

"Hermione! There you are!" Ginny's familiar shriek of laughter accompanied Fred's voice; Hermione mused that Harry must have spoken. _That wasn't nice. Dr. Riddle's cruelty is getting to you,_ she scolded herself as she turned and saw Fred jogging towards her. Almost immediately she began grinning at him as he came to a stop in front of her.

"Hello," she greeted, feeling pleasantly warm.

"I can't hug or kiss you because they don't know yet," he explained, leading her to Harry and Ginny. "But I want to," he added in a low voice that made Hermione want to swoon.

"Secret relationships are more fun anyway," she confided.

But over the next few weeks, Hermione had changed her mind on that one. Secret relationships were mostly exhausting. She didn't tell anyone because she worried they would judge her, especially since Angelina was everyone's mutual friend. She didn't even tell Harry. The only person who knew was George. It was a small relief that he was only interested in his twin brother being happy and thus did not care much about who it was with. Hermione knew that Ginny would have been enraged that Hermione had butted in on another one of her brothers' lives, and Ron would probably have been generally upset for similar reasons. They couldn't have dates anywhere in public in case one of their friends spotted them, and they could never be too friendly around each other in case it aroused suspicions.

And having pizza at each other's apartments got old pretty quickly—not because she didn't enjoy his company, but because they had decided to not go any farther than they already had on a physical level. They both had agreed that that would entangle them further, and it was simply too soon for that. But the physical attraction between them was magnified when they were all alone in a private place with nothing much else to do. Neither of them liked watching television or movies, and reading together seemed a waste of time.

Fred, for his part, had never been so sexually frustrated in his life. He and Angelina had gone all the way at their junior prom, even before they had begun a relationship. After that one night of drunken fumbling, they had gotten together, and it had seemed silly to put limits on it when it had already happened. But not being able to do anything with Hermione was beginning to get to him. They were afraid to cuddle too much because it always seemed to make it more difficult to keep their promise and not go further. The kisses were kept to a minimum and when Fred realized there was no place he could safely kiss his new girlfriend, it bugged him. Especially since he genuinely liked Hermione and really enjoyed being with her.

"We have to tell them," Fred said one Friday night in November. Another close call had occurred and now they were seated on Hermione's couch, both with glasses of ice water, attempting to calm themselves down. Their kissing had become a bit too heated and somehow his shirt had gotten removed and Hermione's jeans become unzipped and unbuttoned. Now, reclothed, they sat on opposite ends of the couch, staring at the wall across from them. "I can't keep doing this, 'Mione."

"I know," she said in a small voice. "I just have no idea how to go about it," she admitted with a sigh as she ran her fingers through her hair which had become mussed during their kissing.

"George says he's fine with it. So at least we have his support," said Fred, who wanted to dump the ice water over his head. For a brief moment, before they had stopped, he had gotten a glimpse of her knickers. After all of the self-control they had been exercising for the past month, a silly little thing like a peek of lace and cotton was incredibly exciting to him. _So close..._ He had felt the ridge of her hipbone, the knickers dipping on either side. He could not rid his mind of the image of what he might find had he pulled her jeans down a little further.

"How do you think Angelina will take it?"

Hermione had voiced the big question. Truthfully he knew that no matter how the rest of his family reacted to this sudden relationship that had blossomed out of seemingly nowhere, they'd accept it eventually. It was Angelina's reaction that he was truly worried about. He'd seen her quite often and the atmosphere was always awkward but still civil...though whenever he forgot himself and acted friendlier in public towards Hermione, he felt Angelina's shrewd gaze on him. Chances were she already knew—Angelina was, of course, one of the smartest people he had ever met.

He didn't want to deal with it and he found himself turning to Hermione. They both seemed to simultaneously forget they were supposed to be calming down as their lips crashed against each other. Hermione was fighting for dominance this time and pushed Fred backwards onto the couch, their legs awkwardly entangled. He found it cute that she was so inexperienced, and he liked feeling superior to her in this one regard. He gripped her thighs and adjusted her to straddle his hips as her tongue found his. Without meaning to, he rolled his hips against hers, eliciting a soft moan from Hermione.

It was also fun to see her lose control. Usually, Hermione was such a control freak, so obsessed with perfecting every little detail. But when he got ahold of her... he grinned against her lips, massaging her thighs and slyly moving to her behind. Hermione let out a squeal into his mouth when he pinched her bum and Fred laughed before moving his hands to skim the bottom of her jumper, feeling soft warm skin. He enjoyed running his fingertips over her stomach, tracing upwards to her ribcage. She was slightly ticklish and twitched a bit when his fingertips ghosted over the skin just beneath her bra. Now his heartrate was quickening noticeably and he sat up, pushing her to lay back down on the couch underneath him, as he took the plunge and let his hand move up to her breast. Her bra was silky and thin and Hermione let out a little whimper as his palm rubbed against her breast.

He was beyond aroused now and knew she could feel it. The fact that she wasn't moving away encouraged him and he parted their kiss just long enough to yank the jumper over her head. It got tossed to the ground with his shirt and they both sighed at the skin-to-skin contact that they had been avoiding for what felt like ages. When he ran his thumb over her hardened pink bud, she gasped and arched into him instinctively. Fred trailed his lips to her neck, enjoying the soft skin there and the sounds Hermione was making. When his lips reached the skin beneath her collarbone, he snaked an arm around her ribcage, his fingers fumbling for the clasp. The bra loosened but he didn't slip it off her shoulders yet, instead moving back to her lips and using his hands to encourage her thighs up around his hips.

They were so lost in passion that they did not remember that Hermione had never locked her front door. They didn't know that Ginny and Harry had come to stop by Hermione's place, or that Ginny felt comfortable enough with Hermione to not knock before entering her apartment. The sound of the knob turning was masked by Fred's groan as Hermione's fingers hooked underneath the waistband of his pants. The only alert they received to Ginny and Harry's presence was the horrified shriek that Ginny let out when she stepped inside and saw them on the couch, just before dropping the six pack of butterbeer that she had brought over. The glass smashed and the golden liquid seeped into the rug. Fred and Hermione froze as Fred looked over his shoulder. Hermiones legs were hooked around his hips and her bra was beginning to slip off her. He was also positive that they both had the beginnings of some impressive hickies, and their clothing was rather incriminatingly discarded save for their pants.

They had been caught.


	7. 7: House of Cards

The Scientist

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I was incredibly busy, and then was rushing to catch up on my other fics.

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven: House of Cards<strong>

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><p>Tom shrugged into a plain cotton long-sleeved shirt, narrowing his eyes at the weather outside. It was late evening, and looked like it was beginning to rain. He disliked rain more than anything, and running in it was just plainly irritating. But he needed to do<em> something<em> to take his mind off of things, and for once, work wasn't helping. For a moment he debated just giving another hack at working, but recalling the success (or lack thereof) he had been having so far this evening, he made his decision.

His trainers clapped against the wet pavement outside and immediately his shirt became stuck to his skin. Still, it was a welcome distraction from his inner thoughts. All evening he had been unable to remove thoughts of Hermione Granger from his mind, and it was beginning to progress to something beyond irritating.

He had finally found a routine for his life that was stable and acceptable. He woke up every morning, got ready for work, taught the annoying law students and usually destroyed at least one student's unrealistic hopes or dreams each day, and then worked on cases until his eyes burned from exhaustion each night. Once in a while, an appearance in court or an outing with Bella and the others was necessary, and occasionally (such as tonight) he even exercised. It was his life, and he'd finally figured out how to make it work for him.

But Hermione Granger was throwing a monkey wrench in it. His debates with her had reminded him of something he'd forced to forget: he had missed having a real challenge in his life. Bellatrix and the others were under the impression that they were intellectually stimulating, but they were fools to think that. He practically fell asleep listening to her coo over him sycophantically.

Hermione...she was an oddity to him. He couldn't figure out where she stood in his life. She wasn't a friend—the very notion was hilarious for a number of reasons—but she wasn't just a student, either. He had never been attracted to his students before. She wasn't a _woman_, because she was too damn innocent to be a woman. She wasn't a colleague, but then again, a colleague was probably how he felt about her. Which he considered a huge compliment, because he rarely considered people to be on par intellectually with him. Yet he had seen her during his lectures, those intelligent brown eyes flashing as she reacted inwardly to his deductions.

But it wasn't just that she was fun to debate with. Dumbledore was fun to debate with, but he didn't have this problem with Dumbledore (though he had on occasion suspected that Dumbledore himself had a taste for the less-than-fair sex). There was something _pulling_ him, really. Ever since the first time he had seen Hermione, he had felt like there was something connecting them. From the very first moment it had been so plainly clear that they were the _same,_ though how he knew that, he couldn't say. He recognized a whole lot of himself in Hermione, and it was unsettling to see how those traits could be interpreted so differently.

The difference was that Hermione was compassionate. She saw the world through an idealistic lens, in a way he never had. And while he enjoyed telling her she was foolish, he also enjoyed seeing how she toed the very thin line between compassion and logic, never falling too far on either side. He respected her for that. And Tom Riddle respected very, _very_ few people in his life.

Then there was the more shallow layer of attraction, in which he found himself taking note of her soft lips or the way her lashes looked against her cheeks when she looked down. He liked how she walked; her hips moved in a feminine manner that, judging by her posture, she was not aware of. She was always bent slightly by the heavy satchel of books she carried, so it was hard to tell that she had confidence. But she did. There was something stronger and steely hidden behind her hand-wringing exterior, and he longed to bring it out into the open. Tom was very sure that the real Hermione Granger never took '**no'** for an answer, and would fight tooth-and-nail for what she believed in.

_And now you're turning sappy, and it's revolting,_ he scolded himself. So he broke into a sprint along the city blocks, ducking between and around passerby and relishing the way thought was soon banished from his mind. All that was left was the burn of his lungs and the ache of his legs. His muscles begged him to stop or slow down, but his indomitable willpower surged him forward. At this level of exhaustion, nothing was left but his ragged breathing and the spray of the rain on his face.

He passed by Hermione Granger's apartment complex and found himself slowing to a stop as a familiar redheaded girl stormed down the front stoop. She was screeching as a black-haired boy followed after her. He recognized them as Hermione's friends that had been waiting for her that day a few weeks ago.

"I can't believe she didn't tell us. Sneaky bitch," the redhead was ranting, her heels clicking wetly along the sidewalk as she stormed along. The blackhaired boy was looking hesitant and unsure of what to do. _What a moron,_ Tom observed, bored by the exchange. He considered picking up his run, but the blackhaired boy reached out and grasped the back of the girl's camel-colored coat. _**Finally,** he's doing something._ Hidden by a line of cars on the other side of the cramped street, Tom found himself watching.

"Ginny, you're really pissing me off right now," he said loudly, his cheeks flushing with anger. The girl—apparently Ginny—whirled around, her eyes very narrow as she glared at the boy.

"I'm pissing you off? Aren't you the least bit upset that Hermione and Fred were going behind everyone's backs? They were cheating on Angelina, and_ I'm_ pissing you off?"

"Calm the fuck down. You know Hermione wouldn't ever be 'the other woman' and Fred would rather die than cheat on anyone."

_True,_ Tom agreed. He couldn't say anything about this Fred character, but Hermione didn't seem the type to settle for being a mistress. A part of him was urging himself to keep running, because he was spying on Hermione's friends and it was getting ridiculous. But the much louder part of him—the part of him that was like the devil on his shoulder—crowed that this was more interesting than prime-time television.

"Why didn't she tell us, then, Harry? She's been hiding it from us, and that's just—"

"Her business. It's just her business, and not yours," said Harry coldly. "Hermione's relationships never work out. She deserves this, and you're being a bad friend by interfering."

Ginny was beginning to cry.

"Hermione's relationships never work out? You're sympathizing with her when _we_ never work out. I've turned down so many guys because I'm waiting for you, Harry."

_Snore,_ Tom thought emphatically, rolling his eyes. So that was what this was about. Bored by the turn the conversation had taken, he slipped away and resumed running again.

It seemed that Hermione and this Fred boy had been caught. Tom mused at how dramatic it all seemed, and yet, a part of him was irritated by it. _You're not jealous, idiot,_ he scolded himself.

After another hour of running, he was feeling marginally better. His muscles felt weak and he grimly noted that it was not as easy to just pop out for an hour and a half long run now as it had been twenty years ago when he had been in high school. The memory of how often he had slipped out to run out all of his frustration he had had at living in foster homes and orphanages sunk his mood further.

Unfortunately, he remembered he had literally no food in his kitchen, and, grumbling to himself the whole way about it, stopped at the nearest grocery that was open late.

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><p>Hermione sat on the couch, unseeing, as she listened to Fred's footsteps as he hurried down the stairs. There was the consequent bang of the door as he left, and then silence.<p>

"Well, that went about as poorly as it possibly could," she said sardonically to Crookshanks. As usual, the orange tabby was perched on top of her television set, looking quite unsurprised. "And don't say I told you so, because I don't want to hear it," she added in a snappy tone. Crookshanks hissed a bit lazily, swishing his tail as Hermione sighed and rose from the couch.

After Ginny had stormed out with much shrieking bouncing off the walls, Fred and Hermione had wordlessly began picking up the smashed pieces of the case of butterbeer. They had said nothing until they were done, and then agreed to lay low for awhile. With the half-hearted promise that he'd call her, Fred shrugged on his jacket and left.

Hermione was feeling too keyed-up to sleep, and too upset to do work. Bidding Crookshanks goodbye, she slipped on her old peacoat and left her apartment. Her hands were shaking from what had happened as she made several faulty attempts to lock her door. _Some chocolate would be welcome right now,_ she decided.

Outside it was misting and quite cold. As it was midnight, not too many places were open, and she was forced to stop at the nearest late-night grocer. Inside, the fluorescent lights cast the place in an unhappy pallid glow as Hermione wandered up and down the aisles in search of a decent chocolate bar.

She was rounding the bend of the last aisle when she stopped short, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum tile.

Dr. Riddle was looking deeply hassled as he examined two different brands of pasta, his eyes narrowed. His dark-blue long-sleeved tee shirt was sticking to his skin, his shorts revealing lightly muscled and somewhat hairy calves. His hair was sticking to his skin and was looking messier than she'd ever seen it, water droplets running down his temples and neck.

In short, her mouth was watering at the very sight of him.

"D-Dr. Riddle," she stammered. He looked up, eyebrows raised, and something—something unreadable—flashed in his eyes.

"Miss Granger," he greeted as he set down one of the brands of dry pasta. "Couldn't stay away, could you?" he said dryly, his smooth pale lips curling in amusement.

"Actually, I came here looking for a chocolate bar, so I'll just be out of your hair," she snapped irritably. She glanced at his hair again, "since it looks like it could use a break."

"You're the very last person to be allowed to criticise someone's hair, Miss Granger," he sneered as he matched her stride as they walked along the aisles. The freezer units hummed loudly and Hermione shivered as they passed the frozen food section. In Dr. Riddle's red plastic basket was a box of dry pasta, several bags of an expensive brand of pre-ground coffee, and a carton of eggs.

"So that's how you maintain that sickly-pale look and the zero-percent body fat," she observed snidely as they reached the candy section. Hermione was in too foul of a mood to worry about being self-conscious, and began snatching chocolate bars at random from the shelf. Dr. Riddle's dark eyes twinkled in amusement at her. Wearing the dark blue shirt made his eyes seem almost navy, and for a moment she forgot herself and could not tear her eyes from his. Water droplets were clinging to his lashes too. _Does he have to be so damn beautiful?_

"So that's how you maintain your womanly physique," he countered with a smirk. At that, Hermione's cheeks really did flush.

"Don't you dare call me fat," she said grumpily, hitting him with one of the larger chocolate bars. "I am in no mood."

"I would never call you fat. I was simply remarking on your curves," he said in an injured tone. Hermione rolled her eyes at him broadly. "Why the chocolate bars, anyway? That time of the month, is it?"

"No. Bad night," she groused. Without really thinking of it, she found herself following him as he distastefully picked out a few kinds of yogurt. "Men suck," she blurted out. Dr. Riddle paused mid-grab for a yogurt and looked back at her.

"You might want to tell that to a non-male audience, darling," he mused, smirking at her. "You'll find I don't particularly agree with you."

"Right. Well, just let me know when every single guy in the world decides to stop being a prat."

"Things didn't work out with ginger boy?" he sounded hardly surprised and even had a hint of humor in his voice. Hermione glowered.

"Who knows!" she threw her arms up in the air. "Since boys never manage to let me know about their feelings, all I can do is guess!"

"How submissive of you."

They were standing there staring at each other for a moment. Under Dr. Riddle's stare, it occurred to Hermione that she perhaps could have demanded information from Fred. She could have even demanded that they deal with their problem upfront. Instead...she _had_ been submissive, and it was a bit embarrassing. "Let me guess—you clammed up and just let him make the decisions, without so much as an argument?"

"Shut up," Hermione growled. "Stop being so damn intuitive. And what are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were a slave to your work. Don't tell me you've got hobbies such as exercising?"

Dr. Riddle's expression was mysterious to Hermione. He looked at her heavily before turning and leading her further down the aisle.

"Only when I need a distraction from my thoughts," he said cryptically.

"Oh, so you _do_ think about things other than your work?"

"On occasion," he quipped with a grin. "It's not a common occurrence, I will admit."

"And what were you thinking of?"

They neared the check-out line. He flashed a grin at her.

"None of your business," he said simply before gesturing to the check-out line. It was the only one, and a very bored-looking clerk was waiting for them to begin. "After you. You've got less stuff."

Hermione wished she could find an excuse to prolong their interaction. She had been cheered up by seeing him, and she really had no desire to return to her lonely apartment. Reluctantly she dropped her chocolate bars on the conveyor belt and fished for her wallet. After paying for her items, she was unsure of whether she should wait for him or not, and awkwardly waited at the end of the line, watching the cashier bag Dr. Riddle's groceries.

Maybe she should have just bid him good-night and left, but soon they were standing outside in the light rain, both shivering slightly.

"This is a bit weird, but seeing you cheered me up," she confessed awkwardly, the icy rain stinging her warm cheeks. Dr. Riddle arched an elegant brow at her. His dark hair was sticking to his forehead, the rain dripping from his bangs and down his face in rivulets. _He really is beautiful,_ she thought a bit sadly, not sure of why she was filled with melancholy at his beauty. _Maybe because I wish he were mine, just a little bit. _

"Seeing myself usually cheers me up too," he agreed, smirking down at her. Hermione rolled her eyes, unable to banish the silly little giggle that escaped at his joke.

And then suddenly her eyes were wet. She hoped that the rain covered it up.

"I just don't understand. Our friends found out about us, and— and—" she couldn't bear to finish the sentence. Dr. Riddle's gaze was heavy as he regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous," she added, wiping her eyes on her sleeve rather futilely, as the rain was coming down harder now.

"Yes, especially over a ginger," he said mildly, earning another chuckle from her.

Seeing her standing there, looking so small and sad, incited something primal in him whose origin was a mystery to Tom. She was trying so hard to hide the hurt from how her friends had betrayed her. He wanted to make her stop crying. It was a ridiculous urge but when he came up with a solution, he realized it benefitted him as well. "If it's not too late for you, I happen to plan on working late tonight on my case. If you're interested in gaining a bit of experience, I'd allow you to come and help out." Only after he had spoken did he register the possible sexual connotation lying beneath the surface of his words. Thank goodness he never blushed.

Hermione's eyes went wide and he was pleased that she now no longer looked like she was on the verge of tears.

"R-really?" she stammered, looking eager. "I mean, if it's not too much—"

"Miss Granger, either accept or not," he said impatiently. "You'll recall I dislike the rain," he added, narrowing his eyes at the sky. Hermione laughed again, and the sound pleased him.

"Right. Just let me get my things. Where's your flat?"

"Near yours. I'll just walk with you and wait outside. Less trouble that way," he sighed, making a show of finding the task to be a huge drag. Hermione didn't take him seriously and playfully batted at his arm. Inwardly the devilish side of him rejoiced in the victory. It was never a bad thing when a girl playfully slapped you, he noted with pleasure.

Hermione forgot all about the evening's awful events as she and Dr. Riddle hurried through the city to her flat. Soon it was a downpour, and by the time they reached her flat they were both soaked.

"Come in. Wait—you're not allergic to cats, are you?" Hermione said as she unlocked her door. Dr. Riddle scoffed.

"Does disliking them count as being allergic?" he wondered aloud. Hermione just snorted and let him inside.

Her flat was _cozy._ It was starkly unlike his flat, which was usually quite chilly even in the summertime. All of the furniture looked pleasantly second-hand, and an orange tabby-cat was regarding him warily from a shelf. "You may as well get a change of clothes," he pointed out. Hermione flushed.

"Er, right. Just a minute. Make yourself at home," she stammered before hurrying down the hall to her bedroom.

Tom was left alone with the orange tabby cat, who was now purring at him, swishing its tail as though expecting to be patted.

"Not a chance. I despise cats," he told the cat with a smirk. Still, he wandered over to the overflowing bookshelf, noting the titles. Most of the shelves were packed to bursting point with impressive titles. Many of them were classics. _Good girl,_ he thought with satisfaction. So the girl was more than well-read, judging by the worn quality of the books. It looked like she really read her books. He slid a title off the shelf at random and flipped through it, noting the way the pages were dog-eared, with different passages circled or underlined. Scrawled notes in the margins bled through on either side.

She was more intelligent than he had initially observed, if her notes were anything to go by. Tom shut the tome with a snap and slid it onto the shelf again, winking at the cat. At the very bottom of the shelf were a number of suspicious-looking novels that he belatedly realized were cheesy romances. _And perhaps she's a little more of a woman than I realized,_ he thought, smirking even more broadly. He rose from his crouch just as Hermione came out of her bedroom.

"Got us some umbrellas. Want a towel?" she offered him a fluffy pink towel and Tom wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"No point, it'll just—"

"Take it so I don't feel bad," ordered Hermione bossily, and she threw the towel at him as well as one of the umbrellas. "I take it you've met Crookshanks?"

"Well, Crookshanks has been trying to catch my eye, but I play a little more hard-to-get than that," he said with a smirk as they left the flat.

"Usually Crookshanks hides when strangers come in. He's not shy...more like foul-tempered. He always attacks my friends' pets."

The rain had let up a bit now, though they still used the umbrellas, walking a bit more leisurely, chatting as they made their way to Tom's flat. Her towel was slung around his shoulders. It smelled like her body wash, and he found himself inhaling reflexively. It was a simple, clean scent that he favored above the heavy, clove-like perfumes that Bellatrix always wore.

He changed when they reached his flat, and immediately Hermione set to work reading over his case notes. By the time he came out of his bedroom, glad in a fresh pair of jeans and a fresh white tee-shirt, Hermione was engrossed in the notes, her brow furrowed as she scanned the pages.

As they worked together, it took a lot more effort than it should have for Tom to keep focused. Hermione Granger was in his flat. He knew that, had she been any other young woman, an attempt at seduction on her part would have already been made. Girls were always falling all over themselves for him, and while her attraction to him was evident, he appreciated that she had not made any passes at him yet.

Of course, he was also slightly hurt that she hadn't yet. And it made it all the more difficult to _not_ reach across his kitchen table and tug on a lock of her hair or some other similar move to draw her attention back to him.

They worked late into the night. Hermione was a surprising help, noting things that he, in his exhausted state, had not picked up on yet. He glowed with pride whenever he had the chance to correct her, and because she was there, he found himself working even harder on the case.

For Hermione's part, she had forgotten completely about the problematic relationship with her and Fred. She was totally focused on the case, although once in a while she did get distracted by the sight of Dr. Riddle in just a white tee shirt, his glasses glinting in the light of the apartment, one lovely hand fisted in his dark hair as his other hand gripped a pen, the tip of the pen scratching against the paper occasionally as he made notes. Hermione wondered if he knew that he sometimes mouthed words as he thought.

Eventually, however, her exhaustion won out, and around dawn her eyes finally drooped shut.

Tom looked up at the sound of Hermione's pen dropping to find her slumped forward, eyes shut and hair in her face. She had fallen asleep. Smirking to himself, he waited a moment for her to wake. When she didn't, he felt guilty letting her sleep upright. Reluctantly he rose to his feet and gingerly picked her up from the chair. He didn't have a couch—what use did he have for a couch? He was always either working or asleep in his flat, never relaxing—so the only place to put her was his bed.

Should he do it? She was stirring now and something that he didn't want to examine made him unwilling to wake her. He made his decision and gently carried her into his bedroom, laying her down carefully on his bed.

She mumbled something in her sleep and he fought back a snicker when she snored a bit. Her hair was splayed on the pillow, and when he stepped back, she grumbled something and frowned before curling up on her side and snuggling closer into the pillow, her small delicate hands curling against the edge of the covers. Should he have put the covers over her? It was too late now; she was lying on top of them. A lightweight blanket lay folded over the radiator and he grabbed it last minute and threw it over her curved form that he was trying very hard to not stare at.

Raking a hand through his hair, he did not allow himself to think on the fact that the object of his desire was lying in his bed. He poured himself a glass of ice water before returning to his work with enthusiasm.

When Hermione awoke, she awoke with a start in a darkened room. Fumbling for her own lightswitch, she was not greeted by the feel of the pull-chain on her own vintage lamp, but instead the cold metal of a streamlined modern bedside lamp. _Where the fuck am I?_

Her hand hit a switch at the base of the lamp and she clumsily hit it, bathing the room in a pale glow. She was lying on plain forest-green covers in a mostly empty room. A closet with a few items in dry-cleaning bags and a radiator beneath a window were the only things in the bed. She shifted, a tantalizing scent filling the air around her. It was a clean, musky, _male_ scent.

_Oh god..._

She tentatively rose from the bed, pushing away a thin woven blanket and squinting out the bedroom door.

A single lamp was on in the kitchen-dining area, under which stood a table piled high with papers and manila folders. Dr. Riddle was slumped under the lamp, cheek in hand, jaw slack. He was asleep sitting up.

Slowly the evening came back to her. Hermione blinked, trying to remember when she had crawled into Dr. Riddle's bed. The only conclusion she could come to was that he had put her there. It was a notion that made her knees weak and her heart flutter in her chest. Hesitating a bit, she walked to the table and stood by his sleeping form. His glasses had slid to the end of his nose and were on the verge of falling off. He had been in the middle of writing something, apparently, because she could see the line where he had suddenly fallen asleep. She smiled to herself and moved the pen and paper from his hands, which caused him to jolt awake.

"Hey," Hermione said gently, unsure of why she was keeping her voice down. For someone as ruthless and vicious as Dr. Riddle, he certainly looked quite cute when he was waking him. His glasses clinked as they hit the table and he straightened in his seat, blinking. Hermione hastily stepped back. "You fell asleep. I was just moving the files away," she explained.

"No, _you_ fell asleep," he argued, though his voice was a bit raspy from sleep. It was a _sexy_ sound. "What time is it?"

They spotted the digital clock on the wall at the same time; it was just after five in the morning. Outside they could hear the rain and the sounds of cars rushing down the still-lonely street. Soon the city would wake up and fill with noise again. Hermione had always loved the privacy and quiet of this time of morning.

"I should go," she said unconvincingly, though she still didn't want to leave in the slightest. She watched hungrily as Dr. Riddle rubbed at his eyes, apparently still waking up.

"Or you could make me some coffee," he pointed out, "Since you're so damn chipper."

Happy for any excuse to stay longer, Hermione hurried into the kitchenette and began rifling through his cupboards, looking for the expensive coffee she had seen him purchase the night before. She heard him stumble into his bedroom and the squeak of shower knobs before the rush of water running. Her mouth watered as she pictured him showering and she had to bang her head against one of the cabinets to get the image out of her mind.

Meanwhile Tom turned the knobs of the shower as cold as they could go, grateful for the iciness of the water. Anything to staunch the sudden and unexpected desire he had felt at seeing her when he had woken was welcome.

He brushed his teeth and dressed again. His flat was filled with the rich aroma of coffee, and Hermione was making eggs.

"Morning. Thanks for letting me sleep over," she babbled as soon as he had entered the kitchen. "I figured the least I could do was make you some breakfast. I'm sure I wasn't much of a help, and probably more of a distraction, so I'm sorry."

Tom didn't respond as he filled a mug with coffee, still waiting for the fog of combined sleep and desire to lift from his normally sharp mind. Hermione's hair was mussed from sleep and her cheeks were flushed and _damn_ _it _he could smell his aftershave on her. "Er, how do you like your eggs?"

"Edible," he managed to utter, turning away from her tempting lips and wishing he was still under the icy flow of water. He stumbled to the thermostat and turned it as low as it could possibly go.

They ate breakfast in silence, standing in the fluorescent lighting of his kitchenette. "You were helpful. After you fell asleep I looked over your notes. They were good," he said, after his wits had returned to him.

"Oh thank goodness. I'm so sorry about falling asleep. I just haven't been sleeping lately, and usually I need a lot of caffeine to pull all-nighters—" she stopped short when he held his hand up, signaling her to stop rambling.

"It's fine. Forget it," he said shortly.

There was an awkward moment after they had washed the dishes, when Hermione had to leave his apartment. Neither was sure how to bid the other goodbye, and in the end he simply made a snide remark about her untamed bushy hair, earning him another slap on the arm as Hermione flounced down the stairs and out of his building.

And after she was on the street, and he was in his flat, they both let out sighs of pure frustration.


	8. 8: Cemeteries of London

The Scientist

Author's Note: Thank you all for your lovely reviews, as always. Finally, almost done this fic. I love how originally it was supposed to be a oneshot, then it became a threeshot...and now it's probably going to be an even ten chapters. *Smacks self*

Important: a portion of this chapter had to be censored due to ffnet's rules. I will post that portion at my LJ later on today. The link is on my profile.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight: Cemeteries of London <strong>

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><p>What with everything that had occurred between Hermione and Dr. Riddle, she had nearly forgotten about the previous evening's awful events. She was so tired (having only gotten about an hour and a half of sleep) that she was only reminded of the situation with Fred when her phone buzzed with a new message during McGonagall's lecture.<p>

Hermione was not normally one for even keeping her phone on during a class, but knowing that there was a new text message was bringing back all of the painful details of when Harry and Ginny had discovered Fred and Hermione. Ginny's betrayal still stung, and Fred's dismissive behavior wasn't too pleasant either. But the thing that hurt the worst was how Harry had seemingly sided with Ginny. There was also the fact that now, most likely, all of her friends were aware of her secret relationship with Fred.

So when McGonagall had her back turned to her, Hermione hastily ducked beneath the desk and peered at the message.

**_Sorry about last night. I figured damage control was more important at the time. Meet at Sirius' today?_**

It was from Harry. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't know what she would do without Harry's friendship. She was willing to forgive him for his behavior last night, considering it looked like he had only been trying to help. Smiling, she sent back a message asking when to meet at Sirius' garage and returned to her lecture. She was eager to hear of whether Ginny had blabbed to everyone, but it would have to wait for now.

Throughout the rest of the day though, Hermione's phone received more text messages than she usually got in the space of one year. Ron had apparently heard, because after her Torts class with Dr. Sinistra there were ten new messages from him alone. Ron had never mastered the difference between a conversation in real life and a conversation over texts, so he made no effort to condense his words, usually ending up with a long array of confusing and out-of-order texts.

Fred had also sent her a message with a joke about how the gossip had spread "quicker than Lavender Brown's legs" and a request that they meet up. Rolling her eyes at the immaturity (and yet the unfortunate truth) of his joke, she agreed to see him at some point.

The day got truly weird, however, when Hermione ran into Dr. Dumbledore on her way out of Dr. Riddle's class. His presence always set her on edge—he was such a worldly renowned man! She felt like a lowly being compared to him.

"Miss Granger, right? I hear you're Tom's favorite student now," he greeted as they fell into step beside each other. Hermione blushed. She always thought of him as Dr. Riddle, but when his handsome face appeared in her mind's eye, she rather liked the sound of Tom. It was a strangely plain name for such a captivating man.

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," she said bashfully, trying to not look too pleased with herself. _Favorite student. I'm his favorite student. I wonder what he's been saying about me..._

"Nonsense. You're infamous in the department now, you know," Dr. Dumbledore said, his piercing blue eyes unnerving her as he looked down at her. "It's very unusual for Tom to take to a student quite this much. You must be something special. He seems to think very highly of you."

"I—"

The hall was deadly silent as Dumbledore leaned closer.

"A word to the wise, Miss Granger: you're not the first young lady to find herself with affection for Tom Riddle, and you certainly won't be the last. And while I do encourage that you pursue a career in law—if Tom thinks you're suited to it, you must be brilliant—I must discourage you from pursuing Tom."

"Dr. Dumbledore, I have no intention—" Hermione sputtered, feeling her cheeks flush in both anger and embarrassment.

"He is a complicated man," continued Dumbledore gently, "with a murky past. I've known him a long time, and I have _not once _seen a shred of evidence that he is capable of returning affection. I just want you to avoid unnecessary heartbreak."

"I don't think anyone is physically incapable of love," countered Hermione coldly. "Maybe he's not the warmest man, but I think he's just as capable of love as anyone else. But I thank you for the..._warning_."

Hermione turned away from Dumbledore angrily and began pushing her way through the front door to the building. She paused and looked over her shoulder back at the elderly philosophy professor. "And besides—I'm not in love with him or anything ridiculous like that. We're colleagues."

"Of course, Miss Granger. It was silly of me to think otherwise," Dr. Dumbledore replied doubtfully. With a kind smile, he bid her good day and returned to his office.

Hermione walked through campus, bristling in rage at Dumbledore's words. _How dare he! He doesn't even know me. I have a boyfriend—I'm not **after** Dr. Riddle at all,_ she sputtered inwardly. Still, his warning about Dr. Riddle's complicated and murky past set her on edge. How could anyone be incapable of love? And, with some separation from the conversation, she could admit that Dumbledore was certainly no idiot—thus there had to be _some_ basis for his deduction that Dr. Riddle could not love.

_I'll just have to prove him wrong. Dr. Riddle isn't evil, or anything. Just lonely._

At least, his flat had certainly felt lonely. With them there together, it hadn't been, but imagining it empty was heartbreaking. It seemed so soulless, with its streamlined modern furnishings and complete lack of personal affects. Compared to Hermione's overcrowded flat, it was positively barren. _And Crookshanks certainly helps to make it happier. But it sounds like Dr. Riddle hates animals...except for snakes, of course. _

She was walking along the high street in Hogsmeade to her favorite cafe and suddenly stopped, realizing she had been so lost in her thoughts that she had overshot the cafe. _Stupid stupid stupid_. She looked around, trying to get her bearings, when her eyes landed on a florist.

That was it. His flat needed life, but he hated animals—the obvious solution was a plant! Hermione always felt that adding flowers to her flat made it seem more full of life. She made her decision and, instead of turning around and continuing on her way to the cafe, entered the florist.

Half an hour later, Hermione was berating herself on how ridiculous this seemed, but it was too late—now she was standing outside of Dr. Riddle's office, holding a baby spider plant. With a slightly clammy free hand, she knocked on his office door. Her mouth had gone dry. _Why in Merlin's name did I think this was a good idea?_

Dr. Riddle—_Tom_, Hermione thought with a shiver of pleasure at his first name—drawled "enter" in a cold and heartless voice. _Not exactly disproving Dr. Dumbledore's point_, Hermione thought grimly before turning the knob with her free hand.

She had noticed in lecture that he looked a bit tired, and now in the slight darkness of his office she noticed it even more. She knew she looked tired as well. It pleased her for reasons she could not understand that they were both exhausted from staying up all night together. Still, she returned the sly grin that spread on his lips when she entered his office.

"I thought your flat looked lonely, but I know you hate most animals, so I thought a plant would be a nice compromise for adding a bit of life without all of the hassle of a pet," she rambled immediately, holding up the spider plant. "Y-you could even name it Nagini," she added as an afterthought, her face blushing molten right up to her hairline. Dr. Riddle looked like he was trying very hard to not laugh. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her with great amusement. She noticed he'd shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. His throat looked kissable.

"Nagini is a snake name," he said with imperious dignity.

"Oh, _obviously_. How could I possibly think otherwise? And do you always call your snake Nagini?" Hermione teased, and then clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized the double entendre behind her words. Dr. Riddle's lips twitched.

"Do you always call your pussy Crookshanks?" he countered. Hermione thought she might die of embarrassment.

"Touche," she grumbled testily.

Dr. Riddle rose from his desk to peer curiously at the spider plant. "I don't have to water it, do I?"

"Yes, of course you do! That's the point of a plant. That's how they stay alive. Honestly," Hermione snapped exasperatedly, rapping his arm lightly with her free hand. Dr. Riddle was laughing at her in earnest now.

"Well, since you're clearly much more responsible than I am, how about you water it?"

Ostensibly, he was inviting her to stop by his flat periodically. Hermione swallowed, wishing her hands weren't quite so clammy. Her grip was slipping on the plastic container housing the plant.

"Fine. Typical man," she grumbled as an attempt at covering up her pure delight at having an excuse to stop by his flat. She held out the plant to him. "But you still have to name it."

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Hermione could not help but notice how they both jumped slightly, as though being caught in the middle of some sort of guilty act. Without waiting for Dr. Riddle's bidding, the intruder entered. As it turned out, it was Hagrid, the enormous janitor for the law and philosophy building. Hermione happened to know Hagrid through Harry, who had known him for most of his life.

"Hermione! What're yeh doin in here with Dr. Riddle?" Hagrid greeted, dropping his trashcan to wrap Hermione in a bone-crushing hug. Hagrid released her to look down at the now partially-crushed spider plant. "Oops. Sorry," he said with a sheepish grin.

"I stopped by to give this to Dr. Riddle. We're just trying to think of a name for it, Hagrid. Any ideas?"

Hermione glanced at Dr. Riddle, who was looking at Hagrid with such pure disdain that she wanted to smack him.

"A spider plant, eh? Howabout Aragog? I used ter have a pet tarantula named Aragog," Hagrid offered. Judging by the look on Dr. Riddle's face, he liked the idea of naming the plant Aragog just as much as he might like the idea of, for example, diving headfirst into a tank of piranhas covered in piranha bait. Smirking, Hermione turned back to Hagrid.

"That's a_ lovely_ idea, Hagrid. Alright then, Aragog it is. What do you think, Dr. Riddle?"

Dr. Riddle pasted on a pained smile that did nothing to mask the pure disgust in his eyes. The effect was a bit reminiscent of a mental hospital patient.

"Dr. Riddle probably thinks he should throw out his ruddy coffee cups," grumbled Hagrid loudly, sweeping the many empty styrofoam coffee cups off of Dr. Riddle's desk and into his trashcan. "Dunno how many times I've got ter tell yeh, Tom. It's like yeh live in this office here."

"Well, now Aragog will keep him company, right, Dr. Riddle?" Hermione asked brightly, trying hard to not snigger as she shoved the plant into Dr. Riddle's unwilling hands.

"Right, Miss Granger," he agreed dryly. "Nothing like a spider-plant for conversation," he added. Chuckling, Hagrid left the office with his trashcan in tow, leaving them in uncomfortable silence once more.

"You obviously hate Hagrid. Why?" Hermione finally asked. Dr. Riddle grimaced.

"I like my mess where it is. And his bloody dog Tooth always jumps on me in the mornings when he comes in," he said with a rather ferocious glower. Hermione giggled.

"It's _Fang._ He's a boarhound," she corrected lightly. Dr. Riddle rolled his eyes and set the spider-plant down on his desk gingerly. Remembering Dumbledore's words on Dr. Riddle's murky past, she cleared her throat before attemtping a stab at finding out more about him. "So. Er. Christmas break is coming up soon—going anywhere for the holiday? Visiting family, perhaps?"

Dr. Riddle took his seat again and regarded her with a suddenly icy expression.

"My family is dead," he said plainly. Hermione bit her lip, inwardly cringing at the sudden awkwardness that had overtaken the office.

"R-right. Sorry about that. Well, er, I happen to live too far away from my mum and dad to visit home very easily, so—well—if you need anyone to celebrate Christmas with..."

Dr. Riddle was staring at her with an unreadable expression. When he didn't reply, she began to panic. "Well, anyway, there you have it—a plant. I'll just be off then. Bye!"

She hurried out of his office before he could say another word, leaving Dr. Riddle to stare at the slammed door in shock before looking back down at the spider plant. Its fronds were partially crushed from its encounter with Hagrid. Listlessly Tom tugged on the fronds in a futile attempt to straighten them out.

And yet, even after such a painfully awkward goodbye, he found himself grinning down at the plant—or rather, down at Aragog.

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><p><em>Well, that was about as awkward as you couple possibly be,<em> Hermione chastised herself as she rushed to Sirius' garage to meet Harry. _And inviting him to Christmas dinner—honestly! Maybe Dumbledore was right after all. _

As though the cosmos were responding to her perceived infidelity, she received a message from Fred at that very moment.

**_Since we're screwed up the arse anyway, howabout a date tonight? A real one this time._**

So it seemed that, whatever Angelina's reaction had been, Fred still wanted to keep trying at a relationship. _A real date_. She hadn't been on a real date—candlelit dinner, a movie, the works—in...

...Well, no need to put a number to it for no reason. Hermione found herself nearly jumping up and down in happiness before typing back a hasty reply.

_**I'd love that.**_

She was grinning the rest of the way to see Harry and Sirius.

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><p>"Bloody brilliant," crowed Fred as they stood outside the door of Hermione's flat, shaking off the snow. On the walk to her flat, it had begun to flurry, and fluffy fat white flakes clung to their hair.<p>

"I know, I never knew Dean was so talented," said Hermione eagerly, fishing through her purse with numb fingers for her keys.

Their mutual friend Dean Thomas had been in the art program at Beauxbatons and was finally having his own art show at a small gallery in Hogsmeade. Really, it had been the definition of Hermione's ideal date: she had met Fred at Weasley Wheezes, where he had ended up teasing her and chasing her round the shop as George and Lee dealt with the last few customers of the day. Somehow they had ended up snogging in the back of the store, in their storeroom, and arrived at the Three Broomsticks later than intended with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. They had had to rush dinner to make it to the gallery on time, which was fine with Hermione: she rarely was able to eat during a date for fear that she might get food stuck in her teeth or something similarly embarrassing.

The only downside was that they had spotted people they knew at the show. Ginny, who had once dated Dean, was there and ignored them, though apparently she and Harry were in disagreement about Fred and Hermione's relationship, because Harry was ignoring Ginny with professional skill. Hermione had nearly passed out from fear when she had heard that Angelina was invited, but luckily Angelina had been held up at her internship and did not make it.

Her friends all were dropping unsubtle hints to question her about their relationship, but Hermione, with the aid of Harry, ignored them all. And she ended up having a great time looking at Dean's artwork with Fred, who surprised her with his appreciation for art. For someone so boisterous and loud, she had never expected that he might have such inclinations. It impressed her and strengthened her attraction to him.

And now here they were: to invite him in or not? They were both awkwardly shuffling their feet as Hermione pointedly fumbled with her keys, waiting for him to make the first move.

But Fred was, unfortunately, being a gentleman. Hermione was all prepared to curse her poor luck when Dr. Riddle's words from months ago came back to her just as she was turning the key in the lock. **_Don't tempt and tantalize—go in for the kill. _**

_That's it._ Hermione grinned and pushed the door open before turning back to Fred, whose dark blue eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"You ought to come in for some coffee," she said loftily before grasping the front of his dress shirt and pulling him inside. Fred was grinning broadly as he allowed her to drag him inside. He kicked the door shut behind him before pinning Hermione against the door.

"Thought you'd never ask. I love coffee," he said in a low, husky tone. Hermione smirked into his rough kiss.

_See?_ she wanted to shout to Dumbledore (though obviously she was particularly glad that the older man was not witnessing their activity, especially after Fred lifted her hips up slightly, forcing her to wrap her legs around his hips). _Not "after" Dr. Riddle at all. I have a boyfriend, thank you very much. Dr. Riddle and I are simply colleagues. And I have absolutely no desire for him to do this sort of thing to me._

That, of course, would have been a lot more convincing if she hadn't let out a moan at the precise moment that her overactive imagination held the image of Dr. Riddle throwing her against the wall in her mind's eye and danced around tauntingly with it. Fred took this as encouragement and soon he was carrying her to her bedroom, nearly trodding on one highly displeased Crookshanks in the process.

So Hermione decided to ignore her overactive imagination. Because, really, lusting after a professor was just _creepy._ Here she was, being presented with Fred Weasley, who was attractive enough to turn heads on the street and with a sharp enough wit that he could keep up with her. Really, she was just being ridiculous.

Hermione thus kissed Fred forcefully as he pressed her down onto her mattress, earning a delighted growl from him. And she did not let herself think about Dr. Riddle again that evening, no matter how hard he seemed to be trying to invade her mind.

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><p>Hermione decided to not examine the fact that she had not spent the past two nights alone, and that each night she had slept in the proximity of a different man. <em>It's not like I intended to sleep over at Dr. Riddle's flat, anyway. That was just for work purposes <strong>only<strong>_, she assured herself the next day. Still, the night with Fred had been more than fun and she found her spirits lounging on cloud nine all day. _I have a **boyfriend**. One who calls me back and is willing to defy his sister for me. One who wants to take me to art galleries and out to dinner. One who looks delicious in just boxers. _And how often did all of these wonderful qualities coincide? _Not often for me, at least._

The awkwardness of the encounter with Dr. Riddle had to be dealt with, however. Hermione sat in the library before Dr. Riddle's lecture, attempting to get work done, when she recalled her conversation with Dumbledore the previous day. Before she had contemplated her actions, she found herself doing a search on Dr. Riddle.

The first results that came up were fairly recent articles on some of his more recent successful cases. Hermione skimmed them, hardly surprised by the quotes that were offered. But none of these alluded to the 'murky' past that Dumbledore had mentioned...

A few clicks later and Hermione found her jaw dropping.

**Ruthless Lawyer Son Prosecutes Guilty Father—Details Inside**.

Now _this_ was interesting. Hermione began searching through article after article until a picture began to be painted. A few of the pages had photographs that made chills run over Hermione's skin.

Dr. Riddle had put his own father in jail.

And his own father, upon entering jail, had _hanged_ himself.

The court hearing had happened several years ago. Dr. Riddle and his father were like mirror-images of each other. It was chilling to see a much younger Dr. Riddle (though he hardly looked any different; Hermione took a moment to curse his good genes) standing in an immaculate dark suit before his father. The difference was in their eyes—Tom Riddle Sr. had watery blue eyes that betrayed an inner weakness, so unlike Dr. Riddle's dark eyes flashing and sparking with brilliance.

_September 05th—crowds gather outside of the Hogsmeade Courthouse for one of the most controversial cases in the city's recent history. Tom Marvolo Riddle, the youngest addition to the Hogwarts Law School's faculty and attorney at law, will be prosecuting his very own father. The accused's offenses entail rape of Merope Gaunt, murder of the second degree of Merope Gaunt, and abandonment of the offspring of the alleged rape: Dr. Tom Marvolo Riddle himself._

The time was ticking. Hermione knew she had to hurry to Dr. Riddle's class soon, but she found herself enthralled. It appeared that Dr. Riddle's mother, Merope Gaunt, had been the heir to a squandered fortune. A long time ago, the Gaunt name had held some influence, but by the time Merope Gaunt was born, the reputation for affluence was gone with the fortune, and Merope inherited nothing more than the family name. After living in squalor, she had ended up working as a stripper at a club in Little Hangleton. Tom Riddle Sr., a rich and pampered young man, had indulged in his darker curiosities one night and stopped by the club for a bit of a good time. Who was at fault was unclear, but somehow, Merope had ended up pregnant with Tom Riddle's son and Tom Riddle was denying any connection to the new mother and her recently born baby.

Unfortunately, a simple paternity test had disproved Tom Riddle Sr.'s lies, and soon Merope had ended up dead with no clear explanation on who had taken the young stripper's life. Tom continued to refuse any responsibility, and thus, the young Tom Marvolo Riddle spent his childhood being passed from one orphanage to the next.

Hermione hadn't seen such a miserable life story since she had met and befriended Harry. Tears welled up in her eyes against her will as she continued to pore over search results and scans of newspaper clippings. There were plenty of photographs of both Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle Sr. and Hermione could not tear her eyes from them. Merope Gaunt had been a notably homely young woman, but her eyes had a certain beckoning quality...it was clear where Dr. Riddle had inherited his lovely eyes.

At the last minute, she closed her laptop and reluctantly left the library to head to Dr. Riddle's lecture, wiping tears from her eyes as she hurried through the chilly late November air. By now most of the leaves had fallen and today the sky was a steely grey, further depressing Hermione.

What irked her above all was that Dumbledore clearly knew about Dr. Riddle's past, and yet apparently held no sympathy for the young lawyer. _How can he possibly say Dr. Riddle can't love? He's probably just scared_. There had been plenty of clips on the internet of the trial, and Hermione had watched Dr. Riddle scathingly prosecute his own father. His rage and hatred and, above all, disgust, had only been too evident.

When she arrived in Dr. Riddle's class, it had already started, and Hermione quietly slipped in. Just seeing him standing there, unaware of what she knew about him, was heartbreaking. He clearly sensed that something was up, however, because he continually sent curious glances in her direction for the duration of the lecture.

After class, she considered stopping him and talking to him, but her bravery fled at the last minute. All day she agonized over what she had learned. In a way, she wished she hadn't researched his past, because it made her see him in such a different light. No longer was he simply the invincible Dr. Riddle, always ready with a cutting quip. Now he was Tom Marvolo Riddle, a man terrorized by his own hatred and anger, a man lost in a world that had turned its back on him.

The thing was, she knew he didn't want her sympathy. Dr. Riddle had far too much pride for that. So she would not try to comfort him about it.

Instead, around dusk, she found herself walking to his flat, clutching an empty watering can. Dr. Riddle didn't need sympathy, but she was certain that he needed friendship. And friendship was something she could give in spades.

When she knocked on his door, she wasn't sure if he would be there. But the door opened, revealing Dr. Riddle. Apparently he was unwinding from a long day; he had removed his tie and his white button-up shirt was partially unbuttoned, his white undershirt showing underneath.

"You can probably guess why I'm here," she greeted dryly, holding up the watering can. Dr. Riddle smirked.

"Glad you place so much faith in my intelligence. Come in." He turned and led her into his flat. Hermione was almost positive that it was colder inside than it was outside—a rare feat, as it was snowing.

She grinned when she saw that the plant was sitting on the windowsill of his study, looking much more lively now than it had after Hagrid had met it.

"You fixed its fronds," she observed as she went to the kitchenette to fill up the watering can. Dr. Riddle sat back at his desk, watching her as she watered the plant.

"It? You mean Aragog," he said with a sardonic grin. Hermione finished watering the plant and set the plastic watering can on the windowsill next to Aragog. It was a lurid pink and looked more than out of place in Dr. Riddle's sterile and masculine flat.

She had been keeping up a good front so far, but when she turned to look at Dr. Riddle again, her heart nearly broke anew. She could not help but recall the look she had glimpsed on his lovely face during those clips from the trials.

An odd silence stretched between them as they regarded each other. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and somehow she knew that he _knew._ There was something in the way his eyes hardened.

"I think you're a good man," she finally said. Dr. Riddle pressed his mouth into a thin line. She could see his jaw clenching.

"Let me guess: good old Dumbledore filled you in on my past? They always get that misty look when they find out," he sneered, rising from his chair.

"No. He hinted at it and I looked it up myself. I..." she paused as he rose to his full height, looking down his straight nose at her. "...I don't feel bad for you. I don't need to," she added awkwardly. Dr. Riddle sniggered rather callously.

"And did he entertain you with his whole theory on my genetic incapability to love?" His baritone, usually sensuous and pleasurably toe-curling, dripped with disdain and sarcasm.

"Y-yes. A bit. And I disagree with him. I think you're just as capable as anyone else of loving. Just because you're not all warm and fuzzy doesn't mean you're soulless. You just show affection differently."

Something again changed in his expression and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his charcoal slacks as he continued to stare at her. "I know because you loved that snake, Nagini. And you accepted the plant, even though it's a bit of an annoyance to you."

"An interesting theory. I'm shocked that you're not running away screaming now that you know the truth," he remarked dryly. Around him, his many scientific models spun, catching the glimmer of the streetlights outside.

"How could I? You're—"

"I'm what?"

She bit her lip. Hermione had been about to say _captivating_, but that would give the impression that she was another lovesick student. _Which I am **not**_, she added defiantly.

"I just have seen many different sides of you. Maybe in a different life you could have become someone heartless and cruel because of your past...but couldn't that be said about us all? You've made the most of what you've been given. You're learned how to succeed against the odds. Isn't that everyone's goal? Perhaps part of learning to find an agreeable way to live your life involved learning to become a bit more protected."

"You've given this a lot of thought, Miss Granger," he said silkily, after pausing for one long moment to stare at her. Hermione flushed and reflexively stepped backward. "But you're an opinionated young lady, so I doubt that you haven't formed some opinion of whether I did the right thing."

"...It's not my place to judge something like that," she replied softly. She clearly had surprised Dr. Riddle, because he raised his eyebrows at her words.

"Oh? But it is your place to judge everyone else: for example, Barty Crouch."

"It's inconsequential if I formulate an opinion on Crouch. But you're...well, we know each other. I wouldn't judge you until I heard your side of the story."

Implicit in her words were the request that he divulge his view of the trial. Dr. Riddle scoffed.

"Then I suppose you'll never judge me," he said quietly.

After a moment, Hermione could think of no reason to prolong the encounter.

"I guess I ought to head out, then," she finally remarked after swallowing over a lump in her throat. They walked to his front door in hideous silence. "See you in class."

"See you in class." She began to walk out the door but he stopped her. "Oh, and Miss Granger?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to cover up the love-bite on your neck," he smirked before tugging sharply on her braid, effectively dispelling the awkward silence between them. Hermione gasped and her hand shot up to her neck just as Dr. Riddle, smirking, shut the door in her face.

"Oh my god," she groaned before banging her head against the opposite wall of the hall.

Just how many people had she talked to with the love-bite visible, anyway?

* * *

><p>The mark on her neck had done something to Tom and, as usual recently, he could not focus. Angrily he yanked his coat on and stormed out of his flat. Her words had also brought up something he'd spent the last few years pushing down, and without realizing it, he had walked to the little graveyard on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. It was situated in between a supermarket and a parking garage, and was a small patch of dying grass dotted with fading, crumbling headstones. Gnarled wrought-iron work fenced in the cemetery and he pushed open the kissing gate, which let out an angry creak at the movement.<p>

And as he stood over his mother's humble little headstone, Tom reflected on what Hermione had said.

**_I think you're a good man._**

So the only person who had ever thought that about him was covered in love-bites from another man. How fitting.

With a last backward glance, Tom fled the pathetic graveyard.


	9. 9: Violet Hill

The Scientist

Author's Note: So, holy crap, guys. This is the second to last chapter.** There will be one more chapter plus an epilogue after this.** (And maybe a chapter of Tomione scenes from the story that got cut from the original chapters). As usual, thank you all so much for your amazing reviews. It's been fun writing this bit of fluff! (and I still can't believe I'm actually finishing a story. Shocking, really.)

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine: Violet Hill<strong>

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><p>Christmas was fast approaching. Somehow Harry had managed to work his boyish charms on Ginny, and after a bit of a rocky start, the redhead had accepted her brother's new relationship with Hermione. Hermione could not have been more relieved. Ginny was one of her few female friends that she <em>didn't<em> want to throttle after a half-hour of hanging out, and she had been noticing her absence quite a bit.

(Naturally she had not been able to resist reaming Ginny out for thinking the worst of her so easily. Ginny had been a bit shocked at Hermione's rage, but it had been good for their friendship. Hermione suspected their bond had strengthened after that episode, because it seemed like Ginny respected her more now that she knew the level of rage Hermione could reach.)

It eventually came out that while Fred had been romancing Hermione, Angelina and George had gotten together. As Fred had dryly remarked, this was a good explanation for George and Angelina's rather mystifying recent tolerance of Fred and Hermione's courtship. Slowly, things within the group of friends returned to normal, though between the twins and Hermione and Angelina there was an awkwardness that Hermione figured would likely be there to stay.

But meanwhile... things with Dr. Riddle were so stressful to Hermione that she wanted to tear her hair out.

Exhibit A: after a long night of working together on the Barty Crouch Jr. case, they had both stumbled into the kitchenette to make some coffee. Bleary-eyed and a bit wonky from extreme sleep deprivation, somehow Hermione had found herself running her hands through Dr. Riddle's hair. He had only belatedly pulled away, and while neither commented on the incident after that, it hung in the air between them.

Exhibit B: first they had been running to the all-night grocer nearby for food breaks. Then, their meeting and working together became so routine that they simply grabbed food from the store on the way to Dr. Riddle's flat. Then, in the week before Christmas, that routine somehow morphed into stopping for dinner at one of the on-campus coffee bars. They were practically joined at the hip, and sometimes Hermione found herself dropping hints that they really ought to simply move in together.

And with all of this time they spent together, and the intensity of their interactions, sometimes Hermione felt more like she was dating Dr. Riddle than Fred. She rarely saw Fred, and when she did, she was so exhausted and her brain was so fried from working on Crouch's case and keeping up with her homework simultaneously that she was sure she wasn't much fun to be around. Luckily this issue was masked by the fact that Fred was working overtime in the effort to make Weasley Wheezes work. He and George rarely got a full night's sleep with all of their work in designing and accounting.

The final trial for Bartemius Crouch Jr. was to take place December twenty-third, which was a Wednesday. The Friday before, around eleven at night, was when Hermione and Dr. Riddle finally finished preparing the evidence of Barty Crouch Jr's innocence.

"I can't believe it," Hermione said, shaking her head as they stared at the scattered notes over the kitchen table. Her eyes burned from exhaustion, and with all of the frantic work she'd been doing over the past few weeks, she'd actually lost the weight she'd been trying to lose since freshman year of college without even trying. And yet...there was an underlying sense of accomplishment that beat out even the guilt she felt for supporting Barty Crouch Jr, who she was positive belonged behind bars for life. "It's so odd that it's finally over."

"I'd say I couldn't have done it without you, but that'd be lying," said Dr. Riddle in a smirking tone as he leaned back in his chair. "But you did help," he conceded.

Her good mood was high enough that she could ignore that comment, and she merely reached across the table to smack him upside the head. As was their routine, he caught her by the wrist at the last moment as usual, grinning devilishly at her as she tried to squirm out of his grip. He'd taught her the proper way to break out of someone's grip a few days ago, and she used the technique now.

An idea struck her, and perhaps if she had gotten more sleep in the recent weeks, she might've stopped herself from suggesting it. But as it were, she was too far gone to care.

"Let me buy you a drink tonight," she suggested, her eyes twinkling. "You've taught me so much these past months, and I'd really like to thank you for it."

"Your tuition money is a good start," he said, winking and earning another slap. "But I won't turn down a drink. Remind me to order the most expensive thing I can find."

"You would," she fake-pouted as they both stood, locating the various items of clothing they lost around the flat. Hermione blushed when it occurred to her the usual implications of losing one's clothes in a man's flat. Of course, she had only removed her shoes and her heavy jumper, as she wore a tee shirt underneath. Still...

Soon they were both dressed and ready to brave the biting December air.

"Of course I would. You know me, Granger. After you," he said, holding his front door open for her with an exaggerated bow.

Hermione was positive that there was nothing better than walking through the city with Dr. Riddle. He was as much of a knowledge-hound as she, so she could ramble on about the historical importance of the different older buildings in Hogsmeade that they passed, complete with an analysis of the architecture. When she tried to do that with Harry or Ron, the boys both started complaining loudly and would often switch the subject to cars or sports. It wasn't much different with Ginny, who sometimes would instead talk about clothes or sex (but was still just as happy to rant about sports or cars. Underneath her lovely exterior and obsession with fashion, Ginny was something of a closeted tomboy.).

But with Dr. Riddle...it was a different story entirely. A sort of happiness that Hermione had never before known thrummed in her veins as, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, she gestured to the different interesting aspects of the architecture of each building, rambling on earnestly. Dr. Riddle asked the most interesting questions, and even knew enough about architecture and history himself to make some intriguing points of his own that she hadn't heard before.

He wasn't just a lawyer—he was a lover of knowledge, history, and logic. Just like her. The only difference between them, really, was his elitist tendencies and her compassion that he referred to as her 'hippie tendencies'. And, in line with his elitist perspective, he suggested one of the more exclusive bars to drop by for a drink—the Leaky Cauldron.

"Of course. I should have known," she scoffed as they crossed the busy wet street. Instinctively, like always, their fingers brushed as they crossed, as though to hold hands. And, like always, their hands darted from each other hastily as they each stuffed their hands in their pockets, pretending the point of contact hadn't occurred.

"Well, since you're buying, I might as well make the most of it," said Tom with a cheerful, cat-like grin. When he held the door open for her, Hermione began to step through and he abruptly closed it, smirking as she glowered at him.

"Really, how old are you again? You're practically a teenaged boy," she said grumpily as they went inside.

Inside, the lighting was low, and pulsing music played over the din of people chatting and laughing together. They snagged a spot at the corner of the bar and ordered Firewhiskeys, their glasses clinking together as they congratulated themselves. Dr. Riddle's smirk felt decidedly intimate and private as their glasses clinked and their fingers brushed.

"To us," Hermione said, her throat a bit constricted at the touch. Her mouth went dry when his smile broadened.

"To us," he agreed, and they each drank from their glasses. For one heated moment, Hermione was vehemently jealous of the glass as Dr. Riddle's lips touched the glass. "I hate to admit it, but you have impressed me," he said after they had set down their glasses. "You've really matured. I only wish you could have a shot at defending Crouch—it'd be the entertainment of the year."

"And why's that? Are you making fun of me?" Hermione asked a bit prissily, narrowing her eyes. His stunning shadow-colored eyes flickered to hers, then down imperceptibly to her lips, and back to her eyes again. The pit of her belly was growing warm.

"No. I'm just pointing out that you've really changed. When I first met you, you were hiding your true personality underneath this very silly anxious and shy persona. You've found your backbone like I knew you would."

It was rare to receive a compliment from Dr. Riddle. Hermione was temporarily speechless, and she had to look away to gather her wits again.

"Thank you," she said quietly. She chanced a glance back at Dr. Riddle, whose eyes were still on her heavily. She warmed under his penetrating stare.

"I mean it. You stopped taking any heat from me a while ago, and you always rise to defend yourself now. I don't say things I don't mean, Granger." Now it was his turn to look away, and Hermione's stomach tightened. It was rare for him to look uncomfortable. She watched as he fidgeted with his glass in thought before finally looking back at her. "You're going to be an excellent lawyer."

Her eyes burned now, not with exhaustion but with unshed tears. She had never done well with such strong compliments. She blinked rapidly, waiting for the moment to pass, before speaking.

"Thanks—"

"Tom! Oh, how I've missed you. Where in Merlin's name have you been?"

_Just. Great._ thought Hermione grumpily as she watched Bellatrix sail over to them, flanked by the blonde man she had come to know as Lucius Malfoy. He did something in finances, though Dr. Riddle had given her the impression that he had received a sizable inheritance and his true occupation was to schmooze. A younger carbon-copy of himself was following behind them in a light grey suit that matched his icy gray eyes.

"Bella. Lucius," greeted Tom flatly. Hermione found it amusing how these people hero-worshipped Tom, and how little he returned the interest. "Draco," he added curtly as his eyes landed on the younger Mr. Malfoy.

"Ah, and if it isn't Miss Gordon—"

"Granger," said Hermione tartly, straightening in her seat and wondering how many times it would take before Lucius Malfoy could no longer pretend he didn't know her name already.

"Right, of course. So sorry," said Lucius absently, his leather-gloved-fingers tightening around his carved cane. "So, Tom. The big day's on Wednesday, I take it?" he asked smoothly. Bellatrix nodded eagerly, slinging an arm around Tom's svelte shoulders and practically assaulting his face with her heaving breasts, put on display by her tight suit and the blood-red lace camisole underneath.

"It is, and you're going to be simply brilliant," cooed Bellatrix, stroking Tom's hair. He tolerated it for a brief moment before brushing away her hand irritably. Hurt flashed in her lust-filled eyes but she made another attempt for his attention, instead leaning into him so much that she may as well have been sitting on his lap. Jealously flooded through Hermione, and before she could stop herself (later she'd blame her reaction on lack of sleep and firewhiskey) she made her move.

"Thanks to me," she snapped at Bellatrix. Amusement flashed in Dr. Riddle's eyes as Bellatrix straightened, apparently rising to the challenge. Lucius chuckled to himself.

"Oh, poor thing. She thinks she's actually helping you. Silly girl—don't you realize this man is considered one of the most brilliant lawyers of his time? How do you put up with her, Tom, especially when she looks and sounds like _that_?" he asked silkily as he toyed with the deep emerald silk ascot at his throat.

"I doubt Dr. Riddle would tolerate my presence if I weren't worth his time. Rather like how he brushes you off any time you crawl to him, begging for the slightest ounce of attention from him," she said, her fists clenching in anger. Lucius' face contorted in rage as, to Hermione's surprise, both Tom and Draco began laughing at the same time. Lucius smiled simperingly at Tom before turning to his son and barking at him to silence himself. Draco complied, but he sent Hermione a grateful smirk over his father's shoulder that Hermione happily returned.

"Never mind that," said Bellatrix hastily, urging Tom's eyes back to her. "We're here to celebrate. Little Draco has made it into the entrepreneurship program at Hogwarts."

"Congratulations. I'm _so pleased_ you found something useless to do to occupy your time and bank account," drawled Tom with a nod toward Draco. Hermione waited for Draco to be offended but he only seemed amused. He straightened his black tie in a move remarkably like his father's before speaking.

"I've got better things to do than get a normal job. I am a Malfoy, after all," he said coolly. Tom snorted a bit darkly and Lucius and Bellatrix began laughing, looking a bit confused as to what was so funny. Hermione rolled her eyes. _What a bunch of sycophantic idiots,_ she thought irritably.

Every time she was with Dr. Riddle and they ran into Lucius, Lucius always attempted to make some sort of degrading remark at Hermione. Usually it was about the state of her appearance or about her status. At first she had been hurt that Dr. Riddle hadn't defended her, until one time he had said something cryptic about her acting annoyingly similar to a kicked puppy.

And after that, Hermione had not hesitated in ripping into Malfoy every time he took a shot at her. It was more than gratifying to give into her bossy urges and act the way she always had _wanted_ to act before. Something used to stop her every time she tried to defend herself—almost like a mental block. She used to walk away from situations where she had been bullied, thinking of the ways in which she could have defended herself and desperately wishing she had instead of laying down and taking it.

Now that she was learning to rise to the occasion, however, her own self-esteem was sky rocketing. She was learning to walk taller, prouder. She was learning to take the sassiness she had always exhibited in the classroom and apply it to other aspects of her life.

And this was one of those times.

"Well, that's all very interesting," Dr. Riddle was saying lazily. Apparently she had missed a portion of their conversation due to her inner pondering. "But Miss Granger and I are here to celebrate as well. She's made an impressive contribution to my work on the Crouch case."

"Oh, how lovely," said Bellatrix, a pained fake-smile on her face as she leered at Hermione. Hermione returned the sarcastic smile with pleasure.

"Thank you," replied Hermione. Dr. Riddle glanced at her with a knowing smirk and winked at her. Hermione was sure that none of the others had caught the wink.

"If you'll just leave us to it, then..." he said pointedly, arching his brows at Lucius and Bellatrix. In a commotion, they apologized loudly for their intrusion and clamored to leave them be. Dr. Riddle and Hermione watched them leave, with Lucius and Bellatrix apparently caught up in an argument of some sort, with Draco sauntering behind them, looking more than amused at his father and aunt's hissed argument.

"Good job," Dr. Riddle said, turning back to face Hermione. "Next round's on me."

"You have this perverse obsession with seeing me verbally abuse your friends," Hermione remarked, accepting the next glass of Firewhiskey that Dr. Riddle ordered.

"Perhaps you're right," said Dr. Riddle, giving her a sly grin that made her unable to resist smiling as well. They each held their glass up.

"What're we toasting this time?" Hermione asked. Dr. Riddle's dark eyes had never looked this dark before, and for a moment they stared at each other. She could not breathe.

"...My perversions, as you call them, then," he finally replied. Hermione's cheeks warmed and something in her belly warmed as well. "Because I do love seeing you fight back," he clarified.

"R-right," she stammered, hitting his glass with hers a bit too hard and sloshing Firewhiskey over the rim and onto her fingers. "To your perversions, then."

Tom watched Hermione hastily gulp down her firewhiskey with pleasure as he polished off his own glass. He was positive there was nothing better than watching Hermione fight back against her aggressors. Watching her grow from the skittish gazelle he had met those months ago on that sunny September day into the fierce lioness she had become now had been more than gratifying. It gave him even more pleasure to know it had been due to his encouragement, and that _he_ alone was responsible for bringing out the real Hermione Granger. She was more than just intelligent—she was able to think on her feet with ease and was compassionate in ways that he admittedly never had been, and probably never would be.

A few weeks ago, Dumbledore had expressly warned Tom away from the young law student. It had been a surprise to have his old rival approach him in the empty corridors of Hogwarts that late evening, and at first Tom had assumed the confrontation was relevant to the Crouch case. But Dumbledore's words after abruptly gripping Tom's arm had been: "about Miss Granger, Tom..." and proceeded to remind Tom of his many foolish theories on his innately corrupt personality.

At the time, Tom had simply thrown back his head and laughed in Dumbledore's face, informing the old crackpot that his interest in Hermione Granger was of a purely scholarly nature and hinting at his own impression of Dumbledore's impending senility. But as he walked back to his flat that evening—on his way to meet Hermione outside of it, in fact—happiness flushed his cheeks at the prospect of having Hermione and her delightfully combative nature all to his own for a few hours. And he realized perhaps Dumbledore had more insight into Tom than Tom had initially credited him as having.

His desire for Hermione had not waned, as he had hoped it would. Instead it had intensified, and as he had reached his street and seen Hermione standing there in the cold, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly, her hair wild from the wintry wind, he had to accept that, for the first time in his entire life, he fancied someone.

He could accept it, but that didn't mean he had to _like _it. She had a boyfriend, after all. And normally he would have simply gone about ruining her relationship to make room for him in her heart. But he realized those tactics would not work on Hermione, and that was _precisely_ why he liked her so very much. She was not an idiot like the rest of the girls who had been in his life.

And now he was left at a loss, watching with inappropriate interest as she set the now empty glass down, her tongue darting out to run over her lips furtively before her pretty brown eyes turned back to him.

"I don't know how you can stand Malfoy and that—that _woman_," Hermione informed him in her bossy tone, clearly changing the subject to draw attention from the obvious tension tautening between them.

"I don't tolerate them," he said crisply. "Bella's amusing once in a while, I'll admit. The only person besides you that I see regularly is a friend from college. Actually, he's a chemistry professor now here at Hogwarts," replied Tom thoughtfully. Hermione went pink at the notion that she was one of two people he allowed in his life.

"Oh, really? What's his name? I took chemistry here in undergrad," she said casually, again passing by his invitation to question their friendship.

"Severus Snape," Tom said, smirking as he thought of Severus, the closest thing he had to a friend. Luckily, Severus was not too different from him, and thus their friendship operated smoothly. They never had to waste their time trying to make the other feel comfortable. They simply saw each other when they wished, for as long as they wished, and nothing more. But he imagined that Hermione, with all of her self-righteous indignation and fire, would have disliked Severus had she met him. Rather tellingly, her eyes darkened with dislike.

"Oh. Professor Snape," she said darkly. "I remember him. I should've known you two would be best friends," she continued bitterly with a grimace. "I was the _only_ one who _always_ had the answers, and who did he _never _call on? Yes, you guessed it: me."

"I take it this is a sore spot," said Tom, grinning at Hermione. "Yes, that sounds like something that Severus would have done for his own private amusement."

After more joking and laughing, Hermione's cellphone rang. _Probably from that stupid ginger,_ Tom thought irritably, glowering as Hermione answered her phone, oblivious to Tom's disgust. She finally hung up after gracing her boyfriend with sparkling laughter. Tom contented himself with imagining bludgeoning the ginger to death, or else perhaps hitting him with his car. _No, wouldn't want to hurt the Firebolt, _he thought disdainfully, smirking at his own musings.

"We should probably head out. It's getting late," Tom said, rising to his feet, not wanting to hear any gushing about how _in love_ they were. Hope sparked within him when Hermione looked a bit crestfallen, but she covered it up by nodding and turning away to shrug into her coat.

"You're right. Thank for the drink," she said as they wove through the bar to the door. Outside, their breath clouded in the air as they began the trek back to their area.

Despite the bitter cold, Hermione's palms were clammy in her pockets as she screwed up her courage. For some reason, Dr. Riddle seemed strangely suddenly remote. In the warmth and cheer of the bar, she had been prepared to remark on how sad she was that the case was completed, as it meant they no longer would be working together. But now in the frigid sobriety, her mouth could not form the words. _Where's that courage and fearlessness he's been working to instill in you, dammit?_ she demanded inwardly. But every time she glanced at him and saw his lovely angular face and smooth pale lips, her courage took flight.

It was flurrying, and Fred had called to invite her to go ice-skating with their group of mutual friends the next day. It would be a perfect winter date, and yet Hermione found herself not wanting this night to end. She purposefully walked slower, finding lame excuses to prolong their walk to her flat. After that, he'd say goodbye. She had had more time with him than she normally would, obviously, but after this, would she ever even see him again? The semester, and consequently, Critical Theory, was over. She had no excuses to see him anymore, really.

Finally, they reached her block, and they stood facing each other in uncomfortable silence, the flurries twirling around them.

_It's now or never, _Hermione told herself.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sad this is over," Hermione began in a wavering, rather high voice. Dr. Riddle's face was impassive as he stared down at her. "It's been—it's been a lot of fun, honestly, and I feel like I've never connected with anyone this much before, and I'm really so very grateful that you allowed me to help you out, and you've done so much for me, and—"

She stopped when he pressed one finger to her lips, a slight grin curving his lovely lips.

"It's no problem, Granger. I..." he paused for one painful moment as it felt like every nerve in her body sprang to life, waiting for him to continue,"...enjoyed it too. I hope you'll come to the trial. Have a good night."

If she supposedly wasn't in love with Dr. Riddle, why did it feel like her heart was breaking as she watched him turn and wave shortly before walking down the street and rounding the bend?

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><p><em>You did the right thing<em>, his rather small good side pointed out in a shrinking voice as Tom unlocked his door, kicking the bit of snow off his shoes before entering.

_Fuck the bloody 'right thing',_ snarled his much more prominent bad side. _You're not following your own advice at all. You've never shied away from a challenge before, have you_?

"Oh, shut the hell up," he grumbled to himself, angrily casting off his coat and stalking over to the kitchen table. Aragog was looking a bit wilted on his windowsill, and Tom shot the innocent plant a glare before dropping into his chair and attempting at organizing all of the work he and Hermione had done.

Something caught the light on the table and he squinted, leaning over to find a small silver earring. He recognized it as the only jewelry Hermione ever wore. It must have fallen out. He'd have to return it to her. Or else he could simply keep it. Could that be labeled as sappy, lovesick behavior? He wasn't sure. "Dammit, Hermione," he sighed, picking up the earring and holding it to the light before letting it drop back on the table.

He knew he would not be sleeping well tonight. That was for sure.

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><p>Hermione was exhausted. After she and Dr. Riddle had parted ways, she had tearfully gone to bed, errant tears leaking out of her eyes until she had finally drifted off. She had slept fitfully, and woke up hung over and not recovered from the weeks of sleep deprivation. She hated seeing Fred when she looked like such a mess, especially since Angelina had the same gift that Ginny seemed to have: of never having an ugly day.<p>

Still, she felt empty and really just _down_ as she dressed in a bright red jumper, hoping the color would bring a bit of life to her drawn and sallow-looking face. Following Ginny's advice, she even blew her hair dry and applied a bit of mascara, but it didn't do much for her and, for all of her efforts, she still left her flat looking like death itself.

The outdoor ice-rink was packed with people. Harry, Ginny, and Ron were already there, skating fast and terrorizing the others. _Bloody athletes,_ Hermione thought darkly as she laced up her rented skates.

"Mione! You made it," greeted Harry as they swung by. Upon closer inspection, Hermione saw the twins were there too, as well as Angelina and Lee.

"This should be interesting. Did you know that they keep the Lochness monster underneath this rink?" a dreamy voice interrupted Hermione's thoughts and she stifled a scowl before looking back over her shoulder. Luna Lovegood was approaching her bench, wearing a hand-knit hat with unidentifiable animal ears sewn into it and carrying skates that had been drawn on in magic marker.

"Luna, the Lochness Monster _doesn't exist_," Hermione snapped impatiently. Luna chortled condescendingly as she sat beside Hermione and began lacing up her skates. Harry, Ginny, and Ron swept by them again and Ron's face went tellingly red as he spotted Luna.

"Yes it does. I've seen it. I got a bite from it last spring when I went swimming in this lake," she said mildly, pausing to roll up the sleeve of her kelly-green puffer coat and show Hermione what was very obviously an alignment of freckles. Hermione drew in a breath, ready to explain the concept of freckling to Luna, but at the last minute shook her head and simply smiled at Luna.

"Ah yes. You're right. An avalanche of evidence there," she said dryly as Luna nodded eagerly. Hermione soon tottered over to the rink and anxiously crept onto it, tensing and waiting to fall over. A skater rammed into her shoulder, nearly toppling her over, but strong hands caught her. Fred was standing before her, having no trouble keeping balance in his skates. George and Angelina skated by, hand-in-hand, but Hermione did not miss the furtive longing glance that Angelina looked upon Fred with.

"The Ice Queen has arrived," Fred joked. Hermione glowered.

"I can't skate, Fred," she said grumpily. "I'm not like the rest of you coordinated people. I don't like being unsteady on my feet."

They watched a bit witheringly as Luna walked obliviously onto the rink and promptly fell over. Instead of getting to her feet, she peered down at the ice, rubbing at it curiously. People skated around her, ramming into each other and causing all kinds of collisions that Luna was either ignorant to or was simply ignoring.

"She's a character, that one," murmured Fred wickedly. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"She's positive the Lochness monster lives underneath the ice," she explained with a sigh as a man tripped over Luna's bent form. Luna looked up and shot the man an irritated glare before resuming her inspection of the ice.

"Probably just seeing her own reflection. When I was little I thought George and I had another brother because I always spotted him when I looked in mirrors," said Fred with a wink as he tapped Hermione before dashing off. "You're it!"

"Oh, bloody hell. I hate tag," whined Hermione as she half-heartedly began inching along the ice hesitantly, cringing away from people as they skated by her. She looked up for a moment, spotting Fred already on the other side of the rink. George was up ahead, skating alongside Lee. Fred was skating backwards, laughing with Angelina and repeatedly pretending to fall backwards before stopping himself at the last second every time.

_Oh my god._ It hit her like a ton of bricks as she stared at Fred and Angelina. _They're still in love. _

It was so obvious. It was obvious in the twinkle in Fred's blue eyes, obvious in the way Angelina was grinning more broadly than she ever did with anyone else. The electricity between them seemed to crackle in the air around them as Fred began to reach out to Angelina, grabbing her hand almost _instinctively_ before dropping it.

"Alright there, Granger?" George and Lee greeted as they passed Hermione. Lee continued but George slowed to a stop, his eyes, identical to Fred's, following Hermione's gaze to Angelina and Fred.

"I've been an idiot," she muttered, knowing George would understand. His mouth curved into a half-smile.

"Yeah. Been wondering when it would happen, really," he teased gently.

Instead of feeling hurt or left out or betrayed, however, Hermione found herself breaking into a huge grin.

"We're not in love," she said aloud to George. She expected him to crack a joke, but instead he shrugged.

"Not really, no," he agreed. "Attracted—yes. In love...no."

Fred and Angelina finally parted as they came round the bend to where George and Hermione stood.

"Slowpokes," George greeted wickedly before taking off in a hurry. Laughing, Fred darted after him with ease.

"Angelina, wait—" Hermione began as the older girl started to skate after the twins. She stopped, immediately arranging her features into a blank and indifferent expression.

"Yeah?"

"Just wait a bit. I can't skate very fast, obviously," Hermione said. Exhilaration at the revelation she had just had let her forget her own lack of coordination, and it wasn't too difficult to keep up with Angelina as they _very_ slowly moved along the ice.

"Look, Hermione, I know you just saw Fred and I talking," began Angelina, but Hermione waved her hands, cutting her off.

"That's just it. We're all being complete prats," she said breathlessly.

"...What?" Angelina was eying her nervously.

"You and Fred are still in love, and Fred and I just have a bit of chemistry. But no real feelings. And maybe not even real chemistry—I think he was just getting afraid of commitment and I was confused about my own feelings for someone else," Hermione explained impatiently. Angelina stopped skating and Hermione gripped the railing on the edge of the rink for support to look at the older girl. "I'm really sorry about all of this stupid drama. I think you and Fred belong together."

Knowing Angelina, Hermione expected her to crack some sarcastic retort, or tell her off, or _something. _Instead to her shock, Angelina's eyes became wet. Before Hermione could process what was happening, Angelina threw her arms around her in a bone-crushing hug.

"I'm sorry too," she said a bit tearily. "I was trying to make Fred jealous and was so upset when he didn't react—"

"And I think Fred was trying to make you jealous too," said Hermione wisely. "Truce?"

"Of course," said Angelina immediately. The two girls shook hands, smiling at each other. Eventually the twins circled round to Hermione and Angelina.

"Alright there, ladies?" George asked.

"Fred, can we talk for a moment?" Hermione asked, not missing the way Fred and Angelina almost reflexively made eye-contact.

"...Sure," Fred replied, looking too uneasy to joke. Angelina grinned at Hermione before urging George to keep skating with her. "What's going on?" he asked after they were alone—or, at least, as alone as they could be on a crowded ice rink.

"I think we're over. And I think George and Angelina are over. And that's okay," Hermione said quickly, looking up at Fred. "But I know two people who _aren't_ over yet."

Fred paled.

"Look, I know it looked like I was flirting with Angelina—"

"And you _were_, because you still love her," interrupted Hermione firmly. "But that's okay. We were using each other, I think. I just realized it today."

Fred ran a hand through his short fiery hair before laughing and covering his face with his hand briefly.

"Yeah. I've been thinking that too," he confessed finally. "Tell me, was it obvious in the way I shagged?"

"Well..." Hermione bit back a grin but it escaped anyway, and then they were laughing at each other. "You were _fine_, Fred..." she reassured, patting his arm.

"Oh no, damning with faint praise," cried Fred, pretending to faint before righting himself and grinning down at Hermione. "It's okay. I know I was a bit crap in bed," he said, mimicking Hermione and patting her arm detachedly. "You know, I think this is the easiest break-up in the history of humanity," he remarked, which set them both off laughing again.

"I still really enjoyed being with you," she said finally, after they had finished laughing.

"Yeah. I enjoyed it too. You're more fun than your librarian exterior lets on," he confided.

And when George and Angelina circled round again, all four people were smiling and feeling lighter than they had in weeks. Without a word, Fred immediately dove after Angelina and began chasing her. Winking at Hermione, George and Lee joined forces and began plotting to trip the happy couple on their way around. Shaking her head, Hermione edged back to the opening of the rink.

Eventually Ginny joined her on the bench, as they watched their friends skate round and round. As usual, Ginny had completely ignored the dress code naturally dictated by the activity of ice-skating, and was wearing a short dark amber dress with a coat that matched it exactly, with dark tights and a white scarf. She looked a vision. Every time Harry skated by, he nearly crashed into Ron because he kept stealing glances at her.

"So what was that all about, anyway?" Ginny demanded as Ron teased Harry and helped him back up.

"We fixed things," Hermione explained happily. Fred and Angelina skated by, and for the briefest moment, there was a pinch of jealousy that evaporated. They so obviously belonged together that she couldn't help but smile. Ginny was grinning at her and poking her leg.

"So now you can go shag Dr. Riddle's brains out?" she asked coyly. Hermione instantly flushed, slapping at Ginny.

"Ginny! That's inappropriate!" she hissed immediately. Ginny was giggling wickedly.

"Oh, come on. Everyone knows you want to. And by the sound of it, he's dying to as well..." she wiggled her sculpted brows at Hermione lasciviously and Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Your eyebrow activity is making me even more uncomfortable than what you just said," she said dryly. Still...her heartrate was quickening considerably. She chanced a glance at Ginny. "You really think...?"

"I don't _think_ so, Hermione, I _know_ so," Ginny said, giving Hermione a friendly punch on the arm. "Seriously, you guys spend _all_ your time together—"

"Because of the trial!"

"He doesn't need your help on that. You've said so a million times. And he doesn't sound like the type to just hang out with someone out of pity. You guys meet for dinner and drinks all the time, and often, _he pays._"

"I pay sometimes. He only pays because he likes the chance to make fun of me for being a penniless graduate student," Hermione said defensively. Ginny gave a loud, long-suffering sigh.

"Hermione, it _doesn't matter_. A guy paying for dinner repeatedly is probably the surest sign I've ever heard of real interest. I mean, all things considered, it sounds like he really fancies you."

Hermione's mouth went dry.

"What should I do?" she mumbled, burying her face in her hands. "I tried to let him know how much I enjoyed working with him last night, but he just sort of dismissed me and walked away." The burn of the rejection returned full-force as she recalled how Dr. Riddle had so easily turned away from her.

"Maybe because he knew you had a boyfriend, and has too much pride to be the other man?" Ginny scratched her chin in thought. "Sort of like how Harry pointed out you have too much pride to be the other woman. You guys are really similar."

"And I'm still mad that Harry had to point that out to you," said Hermione crossly, wagging her finger at Ginny who ignored her with ease.

"Whatever," she said dismissively with a blase wave of her hand. "Clearly the only option you have is to find some way to subtly let him know that the thing with Fred is over. Then, go to the trial. It sounds like he's pretty likely to win. Corner him afterwards, and I bet you both will be feeling so exhilarated from the trial that when you snog him, he'll just go with it."

Hermione stared at her best female friend in fear and shock.

"Ginny...you are the most devious woman I have ever met," she said timidly, shaking her head. Ginny let out a wicked cackle, tossing her fiery hair and earning another eye-roll from Hermione.

"Yes..." said the redhead, rubbing her hands together with an odd gleam in her eyes, "And of course, since you're so grateful to me, your beautiful and intelligent best friend, for supplying you with such a clever plan, you'll _finally_ have to let me pick out your outfit and fix your hair out of gratitude."

"Ginny!"

"Just kidding...except not really."

Hermione let out a groan. She had the feeling that the days leading up to the trial were going to be _long_ ones.


	10. 10: Reign of Love

The Scientist

Author's Note: IT ALL ENDS. Haha. Kidding, kiddies—there's an epilogue left, and believe me, it's not a flimsy little 800-word affair. Oh no...*rubs hands together evilly* you all know I'm much too long-winded for that. **Thanks to everyone who reviewed this little story**. It's been fun. (maybe someday I'll go back and revise it...lol that day is not today.) Kind of considering changing the plot and characters a bit to make it an original story. You know, fleshing it out a bit, more history, more backstory, alter their personalities some. But we'll see.

SPECIAL THANKS TO RUBY SHOELACES! She is absolutely awesome and amazing and brilliant, and basically edumacated me in the ways of barristers. assemble, tomione fans, and bow to her awesome law skillz!

The deleted portion of this chapter is mature and, for those old enough (or those whose innocence has been corrupted elsewhere), is posted at my livejournal account—the link to which can be found on my profile. Sorry, but I don't want to get banned for a bit of smut, **hence it _must_ be posted elsewhere**.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten: Reign of Love<strong>

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><p>Staring apprehensively at the courthouse before her, Hermione smoothed out the pencil skirt and dress coat that Ginny had picked out for her with anxious palms. The crowd of reporters, newscasters, and spectators roared around her as she watched the armored car containing Crouch Jr. and Dr. Riddle pull up to the foot of the stone stairs. Policemen corded off a path from the armored car as Bartemius Crouch Jr. was escorted up the stairs. He was a tall, lanky young man with pale, freckled skin and a thatch of gingery blonde hair that didn't sit quite right on his head. He was wearing a brand new suit but the fine cloth looked alien on his .<p>

Behind him, Dr. Riddle stepped out of the car, and immediately all eyes jerked to him—it was impossible to _not_ look. In his dark suit that darkened his eyes, he looked cunning and brilliant. His dark hair gleamed even in the grey daylight. He was all beautiful angles, a study in hard lines and contrasts. Having not seen him for a few days, Hermione was hit with her physical attraction to him anew. _How did I manage to grow accustomed to his looks? _she marveled inwardly.

"I suppose it's time, Miss Granger," said Dr. Dumbledore from beside her, pulling her away from her intense gaze on Dr. Riddle.

"Right," she agreed, shaking her head to shake herself out of her thoughts, and followed the elderly scholar into the courthouse, lagging a bit due to her unfamiliar heels.

She and Dumbledore found their seats towards the very back, Hermione's eyes on Tom as she adjusted her skirt to sit down. It was almost as though Dr. Riddle had sensed her eyes on him, because slowly he tilted his head to look back at her. It was like it was happening in slow-motion. Their gazes connected. How had she ever possibly thought she liked Fred, when her feelings for Dr. Riddle were so painfully obvious now? She cracked a nervous smile at him. His gaze lingered on her before he nodded slowly then turned back. The faintest hint of a smile played on his lovely pale lips. Her palms were clammy and her heart was fluttering against her ribcage erratically.

The barrister for the prosecution was presenting their opening statement, and prospects were grim. Logically, Barty Crouch Jr. appeared guilty in every way—the only loophole in the case was his own mother, but she was dead. Dr. Riddle was listening patiently, the faintest hint of a sneer curling his lips. He was making it clear that he thought the prosecution's opening statement was little more than laughable.

When it came time for the defense's opening statement, the change in the spectators was staggering—all whispering was silenced as all eyes swiveled to look on Dr. Riddle as he rose to his feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began leisurely as he raked a hand through his dark waves, "I could appeal to your sense of compassion, for a young man who loved his parents dearly—" at this, he gestured to Barty Crouch Jr., who was apparently doing his best to look innocent, "—but I don't need to. The facts make the case. Days after Cornelius Fudge was murdered, Prudence Crouch—a woman who had quietly disagreed with her husband's line of work—committed suicide."

He paused, letting his words sink in. Hermione and Dumbledore shared a knowing look. It wasn't just the facts that Dr. Riddle was presenting—it was his delivery. Half the jury was composed of women, and even a blind person could never resist the charm of Dr. Riddle. He was compelling, captivating.

"He'll never get Crouch acquitted," Dumbledore muttered, shaking his head. Hermione pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. Considering all of the work that she and Dr. Riddle had done in putting the defense together, she would be surprised if Crouch _didn't_ get acquitted.

And really, as the trial progressed, Hermione felt that the defense that Dr. Riddle was presenting was only half of what would convince the jury. Compared to the prosecution—a nervous-looking bald man who was at least half a foot shorter than Dr. Riddle and nearly twice as wide—Dr. Riddle was the vision of intellect and logic. He was so calm and composed, and his dark eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses were entrancing. As the minutes ticked by, the prosecution had to remove his suit jacket, revealing that he had sweated through his white button-up. It was with trembling hands that he mopped his sweaty brow, and his voice grew fainter and fainter with each point that he made.

Even before the jury had begun their discussion, Hermione could tell that Dr. Riddle had gotten Barty Crouch acquitted. By the confidence that Dr. Riddle exuded, she could tell he knew it too. For one breathless moment, he glanced back to her, and Hermione drank in his smirk.

When the jury returned, Hermione sent Dumbledore a triumphant smirk that she did not realize mirrored that of Dr. Riddle's. Dumbledore privately marveled at how alike the two people were, shaking his head. It was a majority verdict, and Barty Crouch had been acquitted.

Hermione stared in shock. Even though she knew that she and Dr. Riddle had put together a bullet-proof defense, she still couldn't believe that they were going to let Crouch walk.

"Oh my god," Hermione mumbled, her fingers covering her mouth as she watched Barty Crouch Jr. arrogantly hop off the stand and saunter out of the courtroom, hands shoved in the pockets of his fine suit. She was too shaken to even react when Dr. Riddle approached her. His coat was slung over his arm and he was taking slow, languid strides towards her. Their eyes met again and something fluttered through her body.

"Congratulations, Tom. I'm ashamed that I doubted your skills of persuasion for even the briefest moment," said Dumbledore. Dr. Riddle shot him a smirk.

"I'm ashamed for you," he said plainly. "I never lose a case. You ought to know that, of all people."

"You're correct about that. What can I say? I'm a slow learner. At any rate, I must be off." Dumbledore turned to go but paused to look at Hermione. "Happy Christmas, Miss Granger."

"Happy Christmas, Dr. Dumbledore. Thanks for sitting with me," she replied awkwardly. With a kind smile, Dr. Dumbledore swept out the doors, leaving them alone together.

"A solid defense. You did well," he said in greeting. The courtroom was emptying. Reporters and journalists attempted to question Dr. Riddle, but the replies he gave them were so scathing and terrifying that soon they were left alone.

"I can't believe it. After all that..." she sighed, massaging her temples. "I knew he wouldn't be convicted for first-degree homicide but to be acquitted..." Finally, she looked up at him. She had expected she might feel relieved or, as Ginny had suggested, exhilarated, but now she just felt weak and lost. A criminal was out there, roaming free, and she had had a hand in it. "I feel guilty," she confessed. Dr. Riddle's lips curved up slightly.

"I'm not surprised, honestly."

Painful, piercing silence passed between them as they stared at each other.

"Does it bother you? How idealistic I am?" she murmured, watching his eyes carefully.

"What do you think?" he replied a bit coolly. "You might as well get a move on. I'm sure you'll want to get some mileage out of all the effort of dressing up and meet the ginger somewhere." He turned to go.

"I do want to get some mileage out of this outfit," Hermione said, stopping him at the door. "But as Fred and I broke up, it won't be with him."

"Really. Why did you do that? You seemed so happy, mysteriously," he sneered, looking back at her, one pale hand on the doorframe.

This was it. This was the moment of truth. Hermione clutched her purse tightly in trembling hands, screwing up her courage. _Go in for the kill. Always_.

"Because I realized I was in love with someone else," she whispered. Immediately, Dr. Riddle looked away, his glasses catching the grey light from outside. She saw his adam's apple move as he swallowed. His mouth opened as he began to reply, and then he snapped it shut. When he looked back at her, his expression was one of perfect impassivity. It hurt—she had thought they were closer than this. To have him use the same mannerisms he used with everyone else was a slap in the face, especially after what she had just said.

"Well, might as well head out to meet him, then," he said in a flat, cold voice, before he left her standing there. Tears burned in her eyes as Hermione watched him go. She bowed her head, waiting for the tears to pass. A court official poked his head in the room and barked at her to leave. Tottering slightly on her heels, Hermione reluctantly left the courtroom.

_Most humiliating experience ever? Check._

Outside on the stairs, crowds were gathered as Barty Crouch, the witnesses, and attorneys answered the journalists' questions. Camera bulbs went off, people yelled above each other, and tires screeched as more news station vehicles pulled up. Hermione saw Dr. Riddle's straight shoulders as he attempted to weave through the throngs of people. Anger and rejection surged through her abruptly and her temper flared like it had never before. Without contemplating her actions, she stormed down the steps to him, vision blurred with her tears, and poked him sharply between his shoulder blades. Her eyes were noticeably wet now, but she didn't care.

"You led me on," she accused in a hiss. Dr. Riddle opened his mouth to speak when suddenly loud, shrill screams filled the air.

"Barty, you killed her. You killed your own mother! You bad boy! How dare you!" a hysterical voice shrieked, piercing Hermione's eardrums. Barty Crouch stood a few feet away, his jaw hanging slack. The maid, Winky, was stalking down the sidewalk, wearing a tattered printed dress and a man's shabby overcoat, her eyes puffy and her nose red. Her hair was a dark, sopping wet tangle about her shoulders and on her feet were bedroom slippers.

"W-winky, you just forgot to take your medicine today," said Crouch Sr in a loud voice, hurrying towards the bedraggled maid. People were beginning to talk now, cameras were flashing even faster, but Winky could not be deterred.

Hermione's body seemed to freeze in shock as the maid Winky stood on the sidewalk, pushing aside reporters and spectators with a strength that her thin, wiry form had not seemed capable of. Before anyone could process what was happening, Winky withdrew a handgun from her patched and frayed overcoat.

The shot silenced everything for one alien instant. The only sound that followed the gunshot was the sound of bone and flesh hitting stone as Barty Crouch Jr.'s now-dead body dropped to the stone stairs in a grotesque heap, blood dribbling from the back of his skull and staining the stairs around him.

And then there were screams, and Winky began to fire again as policemen rushed forth to restrain her.

"Hermione, _get down!_"

It was the first time he had ever said her first name. Hermione fell to the ground under the force of Dr. Riddle's weight as he slammed down onto her just as something whizzed past her head, hitting the stone pillar of the courthouse behind her. And then there was a shocked gasp, and then blood was dripping onto her cheek. It was surreal. Her head was smarting. Winky's screams could be heard, but they sounded strange as though she were hearing them underwater. Reporters were dispersing, and Dr. Riddle was still crouched over her, grimacing in pain, his face blocking the grey wintry sunlight.

"Call an ambulance," someone shrieked. "She got the barrister!"

Hermione stared up at Dr. Riddle's lovely eyes, which were glazed over in pain.

"Tom..." she whispered, the pain of hitting her head against the sidewalk receding a bit. Her gaze slid to his arm, where blood was staining his fine charcoal grey suitjacket.

"It just grazed my arm," he explained in a pained grunt, before flinching away from her and clutching his arm as he rose.

Tom's heart was racing faster than it ever had before, spots flickering in his vision as he swayed on his feet, attempting to get away from Hermione. He pressed his hand to his right arm, the blood rushing in his head even louder than the sirens and hysterics of the people around him. He looked up and saw where the second bullet from Winky's gun had hit the pillar, cracks spidering out from around it. It was exactly level with where Hermione's face had been before he had batted her down.

Across the steps, Dumbledore was looking at him in shock. He rushed over to him. Tom expected a lot of things from Dumbledore, but the one thing he could never have anticipated was for the older man to sling an arm around his waist, attempting to support him on his feet.

"I was wrong about you," he muttered privately. Tom grunted meaninglessly, unable to find words through his shock and pain. He couldn't gage how deep the bullet had sliced his skin, but judging by the warm, sticky blood staining his suit, he had gotten hit deeper than he had initially thought. His eyes found Hermione and he watched her rise on wobbly, trembling legs. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she stared at him. She was approaching him, and he didn't know what to say. He couldn't think straight. His baser instincts were screaming at him to get her to safety. The maid was obviously after him, so why did Hermione insist on lingering so close?

Seconds later, it seemed, the ambulances had arrived. There was pure chaos as the police were restraining Winky and the EMT's were attending to Barty Crouch Jr. and trying to get to Tom. Clarity was slowly beginning to return in buzzing focus as Dumbledore and Hermione led him to an ambulance.

"Who're they? Get away from him; we need to treat him," barked one of the EMT's as they helped Tom up into the ambulance.

"Dr. Riddle, wait—" he heard Hermione cry out. "You saved my life. I—" she couldn't finish her sentence. _Her life_. He had saved it. The fact only just registered in his shocked mind. Again he looked to the pierced pillar. It would've been a direct hit; Hermione would have been as dead as Barty Crouch was now.

"Just go home," he ordered flatly just before the ambulance doors slammed shut before him and he was deprived of her intelligent brown eyes that were glimmering with tears. _Why was she crying?_

The ride to the hospital was dreamlike. Tom was pushed back onto a stretcher and an IV was inserted. There was a voice somewhere.

"You've lost a lot of blood, and you're in shock. You're going to be fine," they said. "Just sort of an adrenaline overload."

Tom wanted to inform them that he knew exactly what was happening to him, and that he was obviously not mentally handicapped, but his mouth wouldn't form the words. His hand was still clutching his arm, and he dazedly turned his head to look down at his arm. Blood was seeping through his fingers and dripping down onto the ambulance floor.

He thought of Hermione, of how she had looked just moments ago, wet eyes and wild hair and pink lips. Her words echoed in his memory. _I realized I was in love with someone else_.

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><p>Hermione's phone was buzzing with calls and texts.<p>

"Hermione! Pick up your fucking phone! Where the fuck are you!" Harry demanded in the voicemail he had left moments ago. With shaking hands, Hermione sent him a short text to tell him she was fine but was in the middle of something.

She was sitting with Dumbledore in the waiting room at the Hogsmeade hospital. Across the waiting room, Bellatrix was pacing and sobbing simultaneously while the man that Hermione was almost positive was her whipped husband was sitting in one of the chairs, looking grim and pale. To Hermione's distaste, even Professor Snape had shown up. Hermione was shocked to learn that Snape and Dumbledore were apparently quite good friends as well, though Dumbledore and Dr. Riddle had disliked each other from the very beginning. Luckily, neither man expected Snape to value their friendship more highly.

"Severus, I'd like a word in private," Dumbledore said heavily, standing to his feet. Hermione did not miss the way his eyes slid to Hermione meaningfully. Snape nodded and Hermione watched the two men leave the waiting room. Curiosity as well as the pain of having to wait got to Hermione and she got to her feet, surreptitiously following the two men out the door.

She heard their voices—they'd only gone around the corner. Pressing herself against the stone wall of the hospital, Hermione strained her ears to hear them.

"...was wrong about Riddle, and I owe you an apology. I criticised you for so many years for your loyalty to him..."

"Forget it, Dumbledore," came Snape's cold voice.

"I saw him defend that young student of his without a second thought. He threw himself in front of her. It wasn't an act that most people would do."

For a moment, Snape was silent.

"He wouldn't do it for anyone else," he replied carefully, after several moments' consideration.

Hermione could barely breathe.

"All these years, and..." Dumbledore trailed off sadly. "Well, I was an old fool after all, wasn't I, Severus? I ought to apologize to him."

"You don't need me to tell you that," replied Snape impatiently. "Though I doubt an apology will change the way he treats you," he added belatedly. Dumbledore laughed.

It was all too much. Before they could discover her, Hermione stumbled back into the waiting room. She felt faint. Inside, Bellatrix was in the middle of interrogating a nurse.

"He's getting released!" squealed Bellatrix to Rodolphus ecstatically. Moments later, Snape and Dumbledore entered, and Bellatrix gave the same news, pointedly directing it at Snape and ignoring Dumbledore.

Relief crashed into Hermione in waves. She had to put her head between her knees for a moment before she finally had gotten a grip.

"Alright there, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore greeted warily, raising his brows at her.

Something inside Hermione snapped. Bellatrix was annoying the other people in the awiting room with her triumphant dancing, and at that moment, the Malfoy family came in, followed by others that Hermione did not recognize. All these people... she didn't want to see Dr. Riddle in front of them. She couldn't do it. Not after everything that had happened today.

"...Tell him I'm glad he's better," she replied in a strained voice to Dumbledore. So much understanding passed in his piercing blue gaze that she felt weak. "I can't stay though."

She didn't know why she was running away, really. Dr. Riddle had clearly rejected her, but then why had he so selflessly thrown himself in front of her, effectively saving her life? She couldn't figure it out. It felt like fingers were wrapped around her heart, squeezing the life out of it. Hermione wandered along the streets just trying to catch her breath. She had never been so close to death before this afternoon. If not for Dr. Riddle, she would be dead now.

Without really realizing it, she found herself standing in front of Dr. Riddle's building just as the sky became tinged violet and red with the colors of a winter sunset.

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><p>Tom walked down the halls of the hospital to the waiting room, his eyes automatically scanning the crowded room for a familiar head of bushy light brown hair. When Hermione was nowhere to be found, it was as though the wind had been knocked from him. Tom seethed. His only comfort was that Severus had arrived and could help him away from all of the morons that followed him around. After managing to push away the sycophants, Severus discretely got ahold of him, insisting that he drive him back to his flat.<p>

"Thanks," he said shortly to his lifelong friend as they left the hospital, finally free.

"Whatever. Don't go throwing yourself in front of bullets anymore; especially round Christmastime," replied Severus irritably, before both men looked at each other and snorted. Severus' car was gleaming black—a Nimbus, of course. He had never known the man to own anything in a color. All of his clothes were black, his hair was black, his eyes were black. The only non-black item he owned was a tee-shirt from Durmstrang, where the two men had attended undergraduate together. The blood-red shirt merely lay discarded at the foot of his closet, however. Severus had once commented on how annoying the concept of school colors was.

"I'll keep your schedule in mind next time," he countered dryly. His arm was throbbing slightly, though the pain had dulled to a mere annoyance thanks to the wonder of prescription-strength painkillers. The bloodloss wasn't good either, but at least he'd received his transfusion. The morning's turbulent events came spiraling back to him as Severus left the hospital parking lot and cruised along the city streets, packed with last-minute holiday shoppers. He didn't drive nearly as fast or as recklessly as Tom did, but his movements were certainly jerky and abrupt.

"How well can you walk, Riddle?" Severus asked as they neared his flat. Tom raised his brows at Severus.

"Are you seriously making me walk the rest of the way to my own flat?" he demanded in disbelief. Severus was obviously masking a smirk.

"Dumbledore implied you were likely to have someone waiting for you there. And no offense, but seeing you getting lovey-dovey might ruin my appetite."

Tom's mouth went dry.

"Not Bella? I saw her leave with Lestrange," he said, unwilling to believe Severus was referring to a certain bushy-haired law student.

"No. The annoying one, with the hair, you idiot," said Severus impatiently.

"Granger wouldn't be waiting there. It's not her style," he finally said dismissively. "She...she wasn't even in the waiting room."

"Yes she was. Up until the moment Bellatrix started screeching that you were to be released. The girl left in tears."

"...That doesn't mean she'll be there," he said, though something was tightening inside of him. Severus let out a long-suffering sigh. "I don't know why you listen to that senile old fool, anyway. Dumbledore doesn't know up from down," Tom added irritably.

"Don't. Insult. Dumbledore," Severus snapped. Tom rolled his eyes. He'd never understood Severus and Dumbledore's mysterious friendship, and he knew he'd never bother trying, anyway. "Here we are. Walk." Severus swept up to the curb. Round the corner was his flat...and the moment of truth. "And before you complain, let me remind you that it was your arm that got shot, not your leg. You can still walk just fine."

"I'm going to shoot both your legs and force you to play hopscotch for Christmas. It will be the best present ever," Tom snapped at his friend as he got out of the low sports car on slightly unsteady legs. "Happy Christmas, Severus," he added over his shoulder. Severus scoffed.

"It will be for you, I believe, but for me it will be just another Christmas listening to the Malfoys getting drunk on the finest port," he sneered before zooming off into the snowy evening. Tom grinned at the retreating Nimbus. It was never his way with Severus to show actual friendliness or appreciation. Their friendship just didn't operate that way.

He wanted to delay this moment. He didn't want to find out if Hermione was waiting for him or not.

_Don't be such a weakling. Who cares if she's waiting? Not you. You're Tom Marvolo Riddle. Get a fucking grip._

Forcing himself into his usual cold expression, he rounded the corner of the city block, still pressing his left hand to his right arm, clutching the wound. He applied a little more pressure until it hurt _more_, gritting his teeth and focusing on the pain as the front steps of his building came into view.

He stopped dead in his tracks, the snow falling around him and stinging his cheeks as his eyes landed on Hermione.

Still wearing her prissy and very un-Hermione skirt and heels, she was slumped on the front steps, chin in hands, elbows on knees, staring glumly at the cars passing by. Her hair was coming out of its chignon, frizzy wisps flying around her miserable face, as the flurries began to gather round her.

He didn't know what to expect. She had said she was in love with someone else, and then, just before the chaos had broken out, she'd yelled at him for leading her on. What did she feel for him? Why was she waiting at his flat if she didn't love him?

What if she did love him?

Hermione watched the snowflakes hitting the street and dissolving upon contact, shivering slightly and bouncing her feet to keep warm. For an hour now she'd been sitting here. _Maybe he's not coming at all. Maybe he and Bellatrix and all his followers went out to celebrate. _Her inflamed sense of rejection was stinging so badly that Hermione felt she had been shot too.

Still, beneath all of the rejection and confusion was a spark of hope. _**He wouldn't do it for anyone else**. _

All of this complication and confusion...and all she wanted was to go back to the beginning. She wanted to try again, to not go after Fred, to just be honest with Dr. Riddle about how she felt.

No, wait—then they might've never grown close. No, she wanted to just work on cases with him forever, anticipating those little moments of faintest skin-to-skin contact with a rapid fluttering heart. She wanted to listen to him tell her stories over expensive Firewhiskey, she wanted to tell him everything she knew about art and history.

She wanted to wake up in his bed, inhaling his musky scent that was such an intoxicating mix of cologne and something uniquely male. She wanted to make him laugh. She wanted to feel his lips on hers.

"So justice prevailed in the end, it seems."

A wry baritone that was all too familiar abruptly jerked Hermione out of her melancholic musing. In disbelief, she turned her head slowly.

A few yards away, Dr. Riddle was standing there, his dark locks mussed with snowflakes lingering and melting in them and dotting his black wool coat, one hand pressed to his right arm. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and his glasses were slightly askew, presumably from all of the afternoon's jostling. It was the first time she had ever seen him look vulnerable.

"Naturally. He killed a benevolent politician and his own mother in cold blood," Hermione replied when she had found her voice. She rose to her feet and stepped off of the steps, brushing at her skirt. A thousand things to say instantly flooded her mind as she took a step towards him. He was silhouetted by the streetlights and multicolored Christmas lights behind him. All of the things she wanted to tell him seemed to crash on her tongue. "You hurt me. You played with my emotions," she blurted out. Tom's expression darkened.

"You were with someone else," he countered hatefully. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Tom stared down at Hermione, at her wide brown eyes looking so unsure. He hated when she looked so unsure. Was she unsure of her feelings for him?

He didn't want to be a decision she second-guessed.

He opened his mouth to tell her off for not waiting at the hospital, to inform her that he had never led her on, to berate her for looking so skittish and timid now, to demand that she detail _exactly_ what her feelings for him were, but no noise would come out.

This was the girl—no, the _woman_—that he had been willing to risk his life for. How many other people could he say that about in his life? None, really. Not even Severus. He had always prized his own well-being far above that of others, to the point where it wasn't even a consideration. It wasn't the most venerable part of his identity, but it was who he was, to his very core. Yet she had shaken him, shaken him enough to make him change his mind about that and put someone else before himself. He hadn't _changed_, necessarily. He still would put his own life before the lives of most others. But she had done something to him, and considering Severus and Dumbledore's attitude and cryptic words tonight, he had the feeling he was the last person to figure it out.

Hermione watched the change in Tom's eyes, watched as they sparked with anger and upset...and then calmed.

Later, they would both wonder who had made the first move. It was impossible to tell. One moment they were standing there on the wet sidewalk, staring at each other in the bitter cold night air as a world of emotion passed unspoken between them. The next, they had moved towards each other in the blink of an eye, and his hands were gripping her upper arms, and her hands were on his chest, and they were crushing their lips against each other's in a searing and honest kiss.

Tom's hands moved to her jaw and her hands fisted in his coat, urging her closer to him, as they broke the kiss momentarily. All of the months of hurt, frustration, rejection, and tension seemed to fall away. All they were left with was that she had fallen for him and he had saved her life without a second thought. And that while he had been despairing that she had not been in the waiting room for him, she had been shivering in the cold outside his flat. These were the truths of them.

And then they were kissing again, and neither could tell if Hermione was pulling Tom or if Tom was pushing Hermione towards the building, and somehow they made it inside the door, kissing breathlessly in the dark hall. No questions were needed—why hadn't they seen the obvious before? The magnetic attraction had been there since the minute he had crashed into her life and disrupted not only her books but her heart as well, and the deeper feelings had been there since the moment he had seen her stand up to him in the way no other woman had before.

In Tom's dark and cold flat, the door banged shut behind them as they kissed in the dark silence, their hands feeling and gripping and grasping and tearing, their lips seeking. They had the rest of their lives for explanations, for apologies, for demands and negotiations. But for now, this—their lips against each other, the shivering penultimate happiness of bare skin upon bare skin of two people meant for each other—this was _everything._

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><p><em>'Running in circles, chasing tails<em>

_Coming back as we are...'_

_'The Scientist' — Coldplay_


	11. 11: Epilogue: Christmas Lights

The Scientist

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your really fantastic reviews and messages and emails. I still can't believe I'm finishing a story.

I initially intended to include clipped scenes from this story but decided not to in the end because I felt that it crapped up an otherwise neatly packaged finale to this story. Sorry, guys—maybe someday I'll post those scenes on my blog. Rest assured there will be several little smut scenes in the future posted there from this story, as the last one was more plot-oriented and less fun :P

Oh yeah, and please review!

**Thanks to all of you who reviewed the last chapter: DreamsMelody, Jane and Henry Forever, Cuttlefish, AM, Cellar, ladi, Crazy4Beverages, lolita, Nerys, WeasleySeeker, FiOnAFiO, rising of the darkness, The-tall-girl-in-green, AwesomePersonlolxx, ajamaisdanmoncoeur, Sen, Nirja, wingedmercury, AngelumPacis , ber1719, KamiaKeller, and RabxBlack. **

Warnings: nothing too explicit, but there is a bit of smutty content scattered about.

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Epilogue: Christmas Lights<strong>

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><p>The next morning, Hermione awoke with a cramp in her shoulder and her hip. She groaned and blearily opened her eyes to the sight of a bare, lean chest. <em>Okay, what the hell is going on<em>? she wondered, trying to process where she was and who the owner of this (notably attractive) bare chest was. Her leg was crossed over his hip, hence the cramp there, and his arms were wrapped tightly around her, which explained the shoulder cramp. _Also, I'm naked. Don't panic yet_.

And when she poked her head up and out of the circle of her sleeping companion's arms slightly and caught sight of a rather angry-looking wound stitched up on the man's firm bicep, the previous day's events came rushing back like a crash of icy water, and Hermione let out a squeak of shock before bolting backwards across the bed.

_Oh my god. I slept with Dr. Riddle._

Time to panic, apparently.

And considering how sore she was, she had done the deed _several_ times. Hermione crouched on the opposite side of the bed, clutching a dark evergreen throw blanket to her naked form and staring owlishly at Dr. Riddle's sleeping form. _I guess he's officially Tom to me now though, isn't he?_ she realized, blinking in shock. Tom's brow furrowed in his sleep and he twisted a bit, burying his face further into his pillow, his hands subconsciously seeking out her form. Hermione realized her mouth was watering a bit at the sight.

_Does he _**_have_**_ to look superhumanly beautiful even first thing in the morning_?

Then she realized that sooner or later he was going to wake up and see her sitting there, and Hermione scrambled out of the bed, getting tangled in the covers and nearly falling on her face onto the carpet. With a backward glance to assure that Tom was still sleeping, Hermione stealthily sneaked into the bathroom attached to his bedroom and shut the door, chest heaving as she stared at her reflection in the mirror on the medicine cabinet. Love-bites marred her pale skin in places that she could not believe she had allowed his mouth to roam; her hair was so tangled she was wondering if she might as well need to simply hack all of it off; and her lips were still swollen from kissing. She sprang into action and located his mouthwash, hidden behind the medicine cabinet.

Out of curiosity, she poked around the cabinet even though she knew it was impolite. A dark green razor, shaving cream, aftershave, deodorant, and mouthwash were stacked on the bottom shelf. Hermione took out the aftershave and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she recognized the scent. _Okay, now time to stop being a creepy fangirl_, she told herself, hastily shoving the aftershave back into the medicine cabinet. She swished the mouthwash around, replaced it in the cabinet, and attempted to run her fingers through her tangled hair.

Not satisfied so much as defeated, Hermione crept out of the bathroom and back into Tom's bedroom. He was still deep asleep, and she marveled at the planes of his torso and how they were cast in high relief from the gray Christmas Eve morning light outside. Still clutching the blanket round her body, Hermione peered through the window at the fresh coating of snow outside as her insecurities returned in spades. He had said a lot of _things_ last night, but did he still mean them this morning? Logically she knew that he must, for Tom did not say things he did not mean and he did not tolerate anyone's presence unless necessary. And it wasn't like he was exactly experiencing a shortage of willing girls…

"I _knew_ you were a morning person," a voice that was still husky and gravelly from sleep startled her. Hermione turned around, tightening the blanket self-consciously. Tom might very well look stunning with the morning light cast over his body, but she knew better about her own body, and in her opinion, there were some things (such as her thighs) better kept under wraps during daylight.

"You'd think after all the time we've spent together, you'd have figured that already," Hermione teased in a crisp voice as she walked gingerly to the bed. Tom sat up slightly, rubbing his dark eyes and stretching. Hermione tried to not make it too obvious that she was staring. Tom winced and abruptly pulled out of his stretch, massaging his arm and frowning. _And that right there is proof that my insecurities are unfounded_, she thought, filled with warmth at the notion that he had saved her life without a second thought. She sat down on the edge of the bed, unable to stop herself from grinning like a fool at him. Tom narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously as he rubbed his face.

"God, you're so cheerful it's disgusting," he groaned. Hermione was about to retort but he reached over and gripped her arm, pulling her back down onto the bed. She scrambled to clutch the blanket to herself, but Tom irritably ripped it out of her hands and cast it back behind his shoulder as he pinned her beneath him. "Let's see if we can't make use of some of that cheer," he growled before pressing his lips to hers.

"So you don't regret last night," Hermione confirmed anxiously, pulling away from the kiss a bit reluctantly. Tom rolled his eyes.

"Hermione, are we really going to go through this _again_?" he complained before sneakily nudging her legs apart, trailing kisses along her collarbone. "Because honestly I can think of plenty of more entertaining uses for your mouth right now and none of them involve talking," he added wickedly.

Hermione flushed indignantly and was about to tell him off when he pressed his lips to her hipbone thus robbing her of the ability to speak.

"O-oh," she said a bit stupidly, her fingers winding in his dark locks. "Well, as long as you're sure…"

"Do I really even need to answer that?" Tom asked, glancing at his arm pointedly before returning his attention to her hipbone. "It might be the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"Enough talking," Hermione said grumpily, scowling deeply when he laughed and then gasping when his breath tickled the skin just above _there_.

"That's more like it," he said wickedly. "Oh, and Happy Christmas, Hermione."

"Happy Christmas indeed," Hermione managed to gasp before she completely lost any ability to string words together at all.

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><p>Hermione grasped Tom's hand in hers, for once not embarrassed at all that her palms were noticeably sweaty. That was a relatively minor embarrassment compared to what this afternoon was likely to bring. She and Tom stood on the crowded suburban street, staring up at a respectable, stately home. It was early May, and the fragrance of springtime was a bit heady. Hermione's dress floated around her legs pleasantly with the breeze, and picked up locks of Tom's dark hair. It was the perfect day to introduce him to her parents, but even with the fluffy clouds in the bright blue sky and the birds twittering in the trees, she couldn't help but dub today <em>Doomsday<em>.

"A-alright, here we are," she stammered before taking a step towards the front slate stone walkway. Tom let out a chuckle of amusement at her expense before allowing her to lead him towards the front door. She thought she ought to knock at first but decided that was too formal and weird, and instead just pushed open the front door as she might have done had she been arriving alone.

Hermione's parents had both been dentists, so she had grown up considerably comfortably, as demonstrated by the fine decor of the foyer. An heirloom crystal chandelier caught the light from outside and cast prisms about the tasteful wallpaper and plush carpeting running up the stairs. Hermione chanced a glance back at Tom to find him looking around the foyer, his expression unreadable. They had had such starkly different pasts that now Hermione was beginning to question whether they could possibly have a future together. "Mom, I'm home," she called out in a tense voice. "Come on, she's probably out in the back garden," she said to Tom, leading him further into the house.

Indeed, Sarah Granger was out in the backyard, picking irises from her garden. She was a petite woman with hair nearly as bushy as Hermione's , though much more styled, dressed in pristine slacks and a ladylike cardigan. Hermione took one last glance back at Tom before opening the French doors to the porch, scrunching her eyes shut and bracing herself.

"Mom, we're here," she said in a slightly quavering voice. Sarah looked up, clutching the bunch of irises in her hand, and a brilliant smile graced her pretty features.

"Hermione, dear!" she said, hastily crossing the grass to the back porch, where Tom and Hermione were standing. Hermione swallowed over a lump in her throat. She had told her mother quite a bit about Tom, of course, but she was still terrified of how their interaction would go.

When her mother's eyes landed on Tom, Hermione watched her mother's jaw slacken slightly. Tom was certainly jaw-dropping, and she knew her mother would not be immune to his looks. In a blue oxford with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, he looked exactly the sort of man a mother would be delighted to have her daughter bring home. _That's all fine and well…until he opens his mouth and speaks_.

After a moment, Sarah recovered from the shock of seeing Tom Riddle for the first time. "And you must be Tom Riddle," she greeted politely as she reached the porch, laying the bunch of flowers on the railing. "Hermione tells me you're considered one of the top barristers in Hogsmeade—impressive," she said as she moved to shake Tom's hand.

Tom glanced at Hermione swiftly as Mrs. Granger leaned over to kiss Hermione's cheek in greeting. She could tell he was recalling the promise that she had forced him to make: that he would be polite and refrain from making any offensive remarks. Unfortunately, Tom was about as unpredictable as a man could be, and while this quality made him an exceedingly exciting boyfriend, it didn't do well for this situation.

"….Maybe top-five," he said with what Hermione knew was enormous restraint. He flashed Sarah one of his trademark charming grins. Sarah blushed rather tellingly and Hermione rolled her eyes. She knew her mother had the same weakness for the tall-dark-handsome-types just as she did, if her father was anything to go by.

"Well, we're so very glad you two could make it today. John's just out to the chemist to pick up some cold medication, but he ought to be back shortly. Why don't we go inside? I just made some tea if either of you'd like some."

They followed Mrs. Granger back inside, and Hermione and Tom shared a look before stepping back inside the house.

Indeed, Hermione's father had returned in the time that they'd been on the porch. John Granger was quite a tall man, with a receding hairline and strong features. The only thing Hermione had inherited from him in looks was her brown eyes, though she knew that, at least in personality, she was truly her father's daughter. John Granger was just as stubborn and temperamental as she could be...

…which was why she was most worried about how Tom and John would get along. Mr. Granger was unpacking the items he'd bought from the chemist when they came in.

"John, Hermione's back!" sang Sarah as she immediately rushed to put the irises in a cut-crystal vase. Hermione watched the two men regard each other. She did not miss how her father straightened to his full height, looking sorry indeed that he did not tower over Tom. For Tom's part, a ghost of his infamous arrogant smirk played on his lips, and it looked like he was struggling to keep polite.

"A barrister, eh? I didn't miss the Firebolt parked in the drive," said Mr. Granger as he leaned forward, holding out his hand. "John Granger."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Tom Riddle," Tom said coolly, shaking John's hand in a startlingly firm handshake. Hermione winced a bit and turned to help her mother pour the hot tea into teacups. "You're a car person, then?" Hermione heard Tom make a pained stab at polite conversation, and she relaxed slightly despite the way her hands trembled a bit from nerves as she poured the tea. Her mother caught her eye and smiled broadly at her.

"He's so handsome," she mouthed, her blue eyes darting over to Tom. Hermione could not mask her cat-like grin as she busied herself with setting up the cream and sugar.

"Heh, I'll admit I've coveted the Firebolt," Mr. Granger was conceding with a forced laugh. "Beautiful engine. But the Nimbus isn't too bad either."

"But hardly economical," drawled Tom. Hermione and her mother led the two men out onto the porch, where they set down the coffee. "A friend of mine has the Nimbus; I don't think he can make it once across the city without stopping for gas."

"Yes, and the Firebolt's got a nicer transmission. Gets pretty fast, I heard." The conversation was _thankfully_ moving a bit more smoothly now.

"Boys, enough car-talk," chided Mrs. Granger. They were all sitting now, and the nervous butterflies in Hermione's stomach had quieted a bit now to a pleasant fluttering feeling.

The afternoon passed relatively smoothly, though when the conversation veered into the realm of politics, there was a point where Hermione had to tactfully stomp on Tom's foot to stop him from voicing his opinions. Her parents were both extremely liberal and tended to label the sort of views Tom had as 'heartless' and 'evil' conservative views. The stomp resulted in Tom attempting to paste on a pleasant and vacant smile that combated with his wish to argue. In the end, he had a rather sinister-looking grin on his face that was probably better suited to a padded cell in a mental institution than tea on a late spring day with her parents.

After a bit of arguing about sports (Mr. Granger insisted the Aurors were set to be top of the league, Tom thought this was absurd and contended that the Death Eaters were indefeatable) Hermione and Tom cleared the heirloom teak porch table and went to the kitchen to wash dishes. Mr. Granger had to make a few calls, and Hermione's mother went into the sitting room to do a bit of neatening up. They were left alone in the kitchen together, and Hermione could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," she whispered as she took a wet plate from him to dry with a tea towel. "You were perfect."

"Yes, but what are they going to do when they find out I'm a soulless right-wing conservative who thinks the Aurors are absolutely doomed this season?" he mused, splashing her a bit with dishwater. Hermione scowled and hit him with the tea towel.

"Tom! This dress was expensive!" she hissed reproachfully. Tom's lip curled in disdain.

"Yes, maybe that'll teach you to stop letting that ginger girl pick out your clothes," he sighed. Hermione rolled her eyes. Tom had made it perfectly clear that he found Ginny's taste in clothing to be unforgivable but when Hermione had questioned him about how he preferred for her to look, she had ended up naked in a dressing room and he'd removed all of her clothes to another location.

"Well, it doesn't matter—eventually they'll find out the truth about your views, but I'm hoping by then it won't matter because you'll have grown on them too much," she explained matter-of-factly, shaking her head. "I mean, I'm extremely liberal and I still manage to like you," she said thoughtfully. Tom scoffed.

"Yes, but I'm not trying to romance your little girl," he pointed out. "I don't think it matters much how 'perfect' I am—I'm still a villain in their eyes."

"I can see you're so upset about this," Hermione said sarcastically as Tom sneakily grasped her hand to pull her in for a surprisingly chaste kiss on her lips.

"Terribly upset. I'll never recover," countered Tom with a sly grin before releasing her and returning to washing the dishes. "Because you know how much stock I put into others' opinion of me."

Hermione was about to dole out a retort when out of the corner of her eye she saw bushy curls and a glimpse of khakis and a cardigan fleeing from the kitchen doorway. Had her mother witnessed the interaction? Her stomach tightened. Dreading meeting her mother's eyes later, Hermione neatened up the counter, barely hearing Tom poking fun at her again.

The time came to leave. Mr. Granger stole Tom for some last-minute good-natured arguing about the Aurors versus the Death Eaters as Hermione joined her mother out front, standing in the early evening's last bit of fleeting sunlight.

"Hermione, he's perfect," Mrs. Granger whispered, turning to her and clasping her hands in hers. Hermione felt her eyes burning with tears of relief.

"R-really?"

"I couldn't help but watch you two do the dishes together," confided Sarah, grinning at Hermione as she tightened her hold on her hands. "I've never seen anyone look at you like that. And I've never seen you be _yourself_ so much around a man."

Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"How does he look at me?" she prodded self-consciously, her eyes wandering inside to where the two men were standing in the foyer, voices raising slightly as they argued. When she looked back at her mother, she was startled by the sincerity in her eyes.

"Like he gets a kick out everything you do. Like he respects and honors you for the lovely, wonderful person that you truly are," she whispered, her smile broadening. "I can tell he's not the type to hide who he is to please others. But he did that for you today. And I can't tell you enough how lovely it is to see you be yourself around someone." She paused as she gazed at Hermione. "I didn't miss how he seemed to understand how your father and I might be feeling. And how he didn't seem bothered in the least by it. That's the sort of man that you want to keep around, Hermione. I think he's the one for you."

Hermione was in shock. She opened her mouth to make a comment, but at that moment, Tom and Mr. Granger came out of the front door.

"It was nice meeting you, Tom," said Mr. Granger a bit gruffly, tugging at his collar. Hermione got the impression that their friendly argument about sports had just escalated a bit and she and her mother exchanged knowing smiles.

She watched with interest at how Tom looked at her, and suddenly it hit her—how he completely _lit up_ when his eyes landed on her.

"Yes, please come back any time, you two," added Mrs. Granger kindly, releasing Hermione's hands to envelop Tom in a hug. It was an awkward one, considering Mrs. Granger was even shorter than Hermione, and they all laughed as Tom had to stoop down low to return the hug. Mr. Granger and Tom shook hands, and they bid each other goodbye.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger watched them get into the car and back out of the drive. Hermione and Tom had not spoken yet, but the butterflies had returned tenfold as she sat in silence, watching him pull out of the drive and begin driving down the street. She noted with pride that he didn't even insist on accelerating to double the speed-limit until they had rounded the corner and were out of her parents' sight.

_I think he's the one for you_.

Hermione recalled her mother's words as she turned to look at Tom, who was frowning as he tried to recall how to return to Hogsmeade from this little suburb. It had certainly been a long drive to get here, that was for sure. They had a long drive ahead of them, and Hermione was filled anew with gratitude for Tom's uncharacteristic generosity.

"Thanks for today," she mumbled, staring down at her hands. "I've never introduced a boyfriend to my parents before, so—" she halted, unsure of how to continue. "You're really great, you know."

"Yeah, I do know," Tom sighed before dodging Hermione's light slap upside his head. "You're alright. I suppose," he conceded a bit doubtfully, sniggering at Hermione's indignation.

They settled in for the long drive, chatting and watching the shadows stretch along the highway as the twilight melted into evening, and slowly the light-studded skyline of Hogsmeade at night came into view after a few hours. And even amidst their conversation, Hermione did not let go of the feeling she had gotten from what her mother had said. _He's the one for you._ She watched Tom, watch him disregard road rules entirely and drive at absurd speeds, watch him take pleasure in overtaking the other cars with his superior engine, watched him try to explain to her _exactly why_ the Aurors were so completely inferior to the Death Eaters, gesturing with his free hand, occasionally pausing to push his dark hair from his face like she saw him do when working on cases sometimes. And she watched when he would glance at her, the barest, faintest hint of a secret smile just for _her_ on his lips.

**_I think he's the one for you._**

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><p>Tom hadn't invited her to the wedding so much as <em>ordered<em> her to go. Hermione had learned to not let him order her around, but in this case her curiosity won out and she found herself on Christmas Eve in an impressive cathedral in Hogsmeade, standing next to him in a pew, listening to organ music play a slow wedding march. Her dark green velvet strapless dress matched his dark green tie and she felt that they looked good together.

She was still a bit in shock that she was attending Draco Malfoy's wedding. He was marrying a society girl named Astoria Greengrass, and it was probably the most gossiped-about, high-profile wedding in Hogsmeade of the year. The Malfoys were a bigger name than Hermione had initially realized, and that point was driven home by how the enormous cathedral was packed to the brim with pristinely-dressed relatives and friends of the Malfoys. She recognized several well-known politicians and socialites about the cathedral, and noted that because she wasn't fully attuned to the society world of Hogsmeade, she was probably not recognizing other big names present.

It was also her and Tom's one-year anniversary of dating, though neither of them had mentioned it at all yet. Hermione attributed this to the fact that Tom had been up to his ears in work in the past few months, but deep down there was a part of her that was, frankly, _really pissed off_ that he had forgotten such an important date. He'd been very distracted lately, especially in the last few weeks, so she had to remind herself that, with his high-stress job it was forgivable for him to have let the date slip his mind. Unfortunately, she refused to be the one to bring it up, so they were stuck forgetting the anniversary. However... the fact that she was standing next to him in a church, their hands secretly clasped together, sort of made up for it.

Sort of. But not completely.

Severus was on Tom's other side, and the two men had been making snide remarks about the various guests of the wedding this entire time under their breath. Hermione had hissed at them sharply to _stop_ because really, some of the guests were easily within earshot, but so far both of them had done a supremely professional job of ignoring her. Except for when Tom would glance at her while fidgeting, making Hermione uneasy. Tom never fidgeted. Was he so stressed out from all of his cases that he was incapable of unwinding enough for a wedding?

"Aw, look at that, Narcissa's on the verge of showing an emotion for the first time in her life," drawled Severus in a murmur, earning a snigger from Tom.

"Frankly it's a wonder she can move her face at all," remarked Tom snidely. Hermione rolled her eyes and amused herself by watching Draco at the altar, waiting for his bride. His best man, the notably handsome Blaise Zabini, was looking rather smug and Hermione assumed that he had given Draco a bit of 'liquid courage' prior to the service, as Draco wasn't looking too steady on his feet. Everyone gasped and rose as Astoria entered the church on the arm of her father, wearing an enormous (but still surprisingly pretty) strapless gown and shrouded by a glittering veil.

"The gown cost more than my rent for a year," Snape said over his shoulder to Tom and Hermione gasped, staring at the gown in shock. As Snape was Draco's godfather and consequently had been relatively involved in the process of planning the wedding, he was probably telling the truth. Hermione grimaced in renewed disgust as she watched the bride make her way to the altar, where Draco was looking even paler than usual.

"The brat's about to hurl. Zabini apparently fed him several buckets of Firewhiskey last night," Tom whispered in Hermione's ear, his lips ghosting along the shell of her ear, causing goosebumps to prickle along her skin. She shivered. Would she ever become accustomed to contact with Tom? She pulled her matching shawl tighter around her shoulders to hide how he had affected her. Surely the fact that he still could bring her to her knees with just a touch meant that they had _something_ important between them...right?

"Serves him right. He should never have gone out the night before his wedding," replied Hermione in a bossy whisper, earning a sexy, rumbling chuckle from Tom.

As the service dragged on, Hermione surprised herself by how she found herself picturing her own wedding. _I'd never pick out an expensive dress,_ she thought primly, staring at the back of Astoria's gown. Her eyes widened when she realized that every inch of the gown was studded with tiny, subtle crystals. That explained the exorbitant cost of the gown. _And we'd never have a big service. It'd just be a few people and maybe a dinner at a nice restaurant afterwards_.

But Tom had never alluded to any desire to marry, and while Hermione had always envisioned herself getting married after she had reached thirty, she still found herself feeling a bit anxious._ Calm down, it's only been a year_, she told herself bossily, and tried to focus on the wedding at hand. But she couldn't. Why hadn't Tom remembered their anniversary _at all_? Did he feel as strongly as she did? They'd never even said The Three Words, which worried her more than she cared to admit. Every other couple she knew had said it within months of beginning the relationship, but she and Tom hadn't had any talk of the future since the first night that they had been together.

And now she was twenty-seven and almost finished law school, and all of her friends were beginning to get on with their lives. Harry and Ginny were engaged (finally), Fred and Angelina had married earlier that year in the fall, and Ron was planning on asking Luna Lovegood to move in any day now. Hermione was filled with unease.

_It's only been a year_, she repeated to herself consolingly. These were not as comforting as she had hoped when she reflected on the intensity of her feelings for Tom and the way they had so willingly rearranged their lives to accomodate each other.

"You may kiss the bride," announced the pastor, and Hermione watched as Draco and Astoria finally kissed, though Draco had a job of pushing her enormous skirt out of the way just so he could get anywhere near her. As they walked down the aisle, her eyes met Draco's and she nodded discretely, earning a rogue wink from him that had her rolling her eyes and grimacing. Tom and Snape had not missed the exchange, and Snape was smirking while Tom was stifling sniggers at Hermione's expense.

"Honestly, I can't believe he winked at me like that," Hermione said prissily as they left the church to throw rice at the newlyweds. The grains unfortunately were lost in the flurry of snow and Hermione tightened her shawl around her shoulders, eager to get back to Tom's car where she could fetch her coat. The reception was to be held at the rather exclusive Florean Fortescue restaurant, and guests left in droves to get there for the open bar.

"I can. Have you _met_ Draco? Besides, he was probably doing it just to get a rise out of you," said Tom with a smirk as they pulled up to Florean Fortescue's restaurant.

"Sort of like how you do things like that," Hermione noted. He parked and opened the door for her. For the briefest moment, Hermione caught a glimpse of unease in his dark eyes.

"Yes. Exactly," he said rather vaguely, making Hermione a bit tense.

They danced and socialized the night away. It was pleasing to see Tom so in his element as he charmed and scathed the other barristers in equal parts. Even better was when Bellatrix sauntered over in a rather inappropriate red bandage dress and was met with frosty indifference from Tom and Snape alike. She left, pouting, and tripped on her stilettos. Hermione glowed with pleasure at the sight. She had never gotten over her dislike for the ruthless and desperate female lawyer, and was pleased any time Bellatrix looked foolish.

She also ended up dancing with Snape, much to both their chagrin, but her unhappiness was remedied by the information she wheedled out of the chemistry professor about Tom's teenage years while they danced to stereotypical wedding songs, which would provide several years' worth of fodder for teasing her boyfriend. One particularly amusing anecdote about how Tom had, as an eight-year-old, come up with a moniker for himself out of an anagram of his full name left Hermione tearing up with laughter. Even Snape was smirking as he told her the story.

By the time they left the reception, it was nearing midnight—almost Christmas day. Their one-year anniversary was nearly over. The fun of the night died away as she snuggled into her coat and walked along the snowy sidewalk in silence with Tom. As they strolled along towards the parking garage, she recalled last Christmas, and how he had looked, approaching her on the street, clutching his arm and his hair tousled beyond help. She remembered that kiss and she felt all of her reservations melt away.

After all of the intensity of their relationship, especially in the last few months, she realized it was foolish to not voice her feelings. She had to do it, because they as a couple deserved complete honesty. They did not operate on lies or even half-truths. Tom was always honest with her, even when the truth was uncomfortable for both of them, so why couldn't she do the same for him? So she slipped her hand into his, entwining their fingers.

"Ever think that'll be us?" she asked, clearing her throat a bit nervously. Tom had apparently been lost in thought, as he often was lately, and glanced over at her in evident surprise. He arched his elegant brows questioningly at her as they stopped in front of a decorated storefront. He was silhouetted by the multicolored lights behind him, reminding her even more strongly of the night they had finally admitted the truth to each other. Perhaps it was time for her to do that again now and speak what had been on her mind for months now—perhaps even since May when she had taken Tom to meet her parents. "Draco and Astoria," she clarified, tightening her grasp on his hand before dropping it.

"I'll never be blonde, if that's what you mean, and frankly, darling, you would look absolutely dreadful in a gown like that," he replied with a smirk. Hermione couldn't even bring herself to laugh. She didn't want to get distracted from the real question at hand.

"I mean married," she said softly, watching the smirk wipe itself painfully abruptly from Tom's handsome face. He stared at her for a moment in shock. "I know we haven't been together long—"

"—a year exactly—" he interrupted, before pressing his lips together. Hermione faltered.

"So you did remember," she sighed. "I thought you'd forgotten."

"I didn't. What do you think I am, senile?" he demanded, finally earning a half-hearted chuckle from her. He still hadn't answered her question. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair and looking away.

"Well?" she prodded. "I can't let you lead me on, Tom. I—I have feelings, you know." She could feel her hysteria rising at his lack of response. He laughed a bit callously.

"I am well-acquainted with your feelings, Hermione," he reminded her. "You don't exactly hide them, honestly."

The snow was falling around them again and Hermione wondered if they were about to meet their end in a similar way as how they had begun. Their relationship was far from perfect but she knew she'd loved him from the start. Yet now the awful, horrible, searing silence between them was killing her and it was hard to tell if they could last through a confrontation like this. If he didn't feel the same way about her, she knew her pride would disallow her from sticking around. She couldn't bear being with him while knowing that his feelings did not mirror hers. Maybe it was foolish to talk of such important decisions as marriage so soon, but she knew herself, and she knew her feelings. _Go in for the kill, right?_

"Please tell me," she said, her eyes burning with tears threatening to fall. He stepped forward, pressing his lips to hers, and she pulled away. "Don't try to distract me," she ordered in a choked voice. Tom glowered.

"I'm not, you insolent—" he stopped before snapping his jaw shut. "Oh, hell, Hermione, you really know how to kill a mood, you know that?" he reached his hand into his wool coat pocket, still scowling at her, and shoved something at her, looking away. "There. Is that an adequate answer, Miss Granger?"

With shaking fingers, Hermione held the thing he had shoved at her, not looking at it. It wasn't wrapped—of course; Tom had informed her long ago of his disdain for wrapping gifts—and was very small. She thought she detected velvet but was afraid to believe her fingers. _It's probably a necklace or something_, she told herself. Which would be fine and would at least be a half-answer, and yet she prayed it was the very thing that she thought it wasn't. "And before you ask, I absolutely refuse to get down on one knee," he added, and then her hands were shaking so badly she wasn't sure she would be able to hold the little box reliably. Swallowing, she looked down and tried to pry open the box. She could not breathe; her lungs had stopped working.

Inside the little box was a ring. Hermione stared stupidly down at it, not even processing what she was seeing. Her jaw hanging slack, she looked up at Tom. He was watching her with narrowed eyes.

"Well?" he mimicked. Again she noticed all of the little things he'd been doing for the past few weeks to give away his anxiety—the constant foot-tapping, the look of distraction on his face, the perpetual grimace. She'd assumed it to be due to the stress of his job, but who was she kidding? Tom _never_ was stressed out about work. In fact, he rarely was upset or worried over anything. For him to be preoccupied, it had to be over something _really_ important.

"Y-you really won't get down on one knee?" she whispered when she had found her voice. Tom scowled.

"Not a chance in hell. You know what this means—you're a smart girl. So what's your answer?"

The elation that surged through her was dizzying as she stared at the ring glinting different colors in the Christmas lights.

"When did you—"

"The day before you took me to meet your parents. I even asked your father—not that his answer would have the slightest affect on my decision, but because I know you like that sort of nonsense. But I thought it was too soon. And I know you appreciate campiness in ways I do not, so I thought you'd like it if I proposed on our anniversary, but I was waiting to see your reaction to Draco's wedding," he said automatically. Hermione stared at him as she remembered that drive home, remembered how she had _known_ so very clearly her feelings for him that evening. The realization that he had felt that too was staggering.

"You really can't get down on one knee and do it the proper way?" she teased a bit hopefully, batting her lashes at him. Tom's nostrils flared.

"Only if you promise you'll say yes. Otherwise I'm going home," he said flatly, glowering down at her. Hermione was beginning to feel a bit giggly despite the fact that she had not had anything to drink tonight.

"Can't make any promises," she sighed loftily. With an unrepeatable curse from Tom, he snatched the box from her hands and went down on one knee in front of her, scowling.

"Alright, here I am," he snapped. "God. I can't believe I'm actually doing this for you. You'd think saving your bloody life would be enough, but _no_."

He took her hand in his free one and she was overcome with her love for him. Staring at each other, she realized that they had been set on this path the moment he had run into her outside of Hogwarts.

"I love you," she confessed. His scowl softened a bit.

"I love you too. But my knee is about to freeze off," he said tartly, "So I'd appreciate some sort of answer sometime soon. Will you marry me or not?"

"You really want to, even though I'm sort of too young for you—"

"Hermione, I'm literally about to kill you. _Will you marry me or not_?" he demanded, clearly fuming. Hermione found herself glaring down at him.

"Excuse me, but it's not every day a girl gets proposed to by the man she's in love with! I want to make the most of this moment!" she said shrilly. Tom snorted.

"We could do that inside where it isn't cold," he pointed out, smirking at her.

"No, we're doing it out here so I can tell everyone you proposed to me out in the snow," she said bossily, crossing her arms over her chest. Tom's expression darkened.

"You are never going to tell anyone about this," he informed her darkly.

"Actually, I'm going to tell _everyone_—even Snape," she said haughtily, attempting to toss her hair before she recalled that it was done up in a tight bun. She settled for sticking her nose in the air. "And everyone's going to find out just how cuddly you really are…._Lord Voldemort_," she added scathingly. Tom paled at the sound of his rather embarrassing nickname that he had insisted on being called in grade school.

"How the fuck do you know about that—wait, of course. You danced with Severus." With an enraged grumble, Tom reached into his pocket with his free hand to pull out his cell phone as Hermione found herself giggling absurdly at his rage. "Hi, Severus. Happy Christmas—hope you enjoy it, because it's going to be your last day as a living man. Goodbye," he hissed into his phone. Hermione caught Severus laughing on the other end before Tom hung up.

"Actually, I thought it was rather clever. I mean, not many eight-year-olds even know what anagrams are," she said thoughtfully, tapping her chin.

"You are a very difficult person to love. Just so you know," Tom said grumpily.

"Well, you're a very difficult person to love too. You're practically the Grinch. It's why we're perfect together, really," Hermione replied knowingly, earning a laugh from him. Finally their laughter died down and she was left to stare down at him and at the ring he was holding in his pale hand. "And yes," she said softly, "I will marry you." She was laughing again and she didn't know why as Tom masked a look of triumph by sliding the ring onto her finger before rising to his feet.

And in front of the romantic glow of Christmas lights, she pressed her lips against his as they each wondered what next Christmas would bring.


End file.
